


Vagrant Honor

by Yoshiyuki_Ly



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Futanari, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoshiyuki_Ly/pseuds/Yoshiyuki_Ly
Summary: Chronicles Noah's growth into Gabranth, loyal Judge Magister and hound of the Empire, back to Noah, loyal only to Fran.
Relationships: Fran/Gabranth | Noah fon Ronsenburg
Kudos: 2





	1. For the Empire

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy XII. 
> 
> Vaan, Penelo and Reks conveniently don't exist here. Though I do know how to word myself, this is a fair warning as to the mature content in the story. I mean it.
> 
> Written as pastiche to honor my favorite author, pixelnyx/ellnyx.

At high noon, the sun shines through the Republic of Landis and its endless continent of trees, heating stone and mud and wood all. Old outbursts of the black plague wane with the long-awaited change in weather, instilling some hope in the ones inflicted and affected. The plague affects people and nature both: Noah runs in play with his brother Basch, twinned, seeing twins of spots in the trees they pass, vaguely noting the decay in his periphery. They are sixteen—they are too young to stop and scrutinize the evidence there. They stop to spar with their wooden swords instead, dedicated to lofty ambitions of defending Landis if ever her defenses on the front lines failed.

Noah knows it is not Landis he should be defending, but his ailing mother. Basch has yet again convinced him that she does not want her sons to stay over her. Too proud—ever the full-blooded Archadian as she is. She displays her pride through her children: Noah and Basch both wear silks lined with gold, their golden hair shoulder-length, their speech aristocratic. Though they have monetary means to see to the finest care in the capital, Noah does not trust another to do what he must. He must, because Basch will not, wont to turn away and wince whenever Noah speaks of her. Their father defends Landis to his last, thwarting the Imperial invasion at the continent's shore. If they should fall, Noah will not run.

Basch will. To where, Noah is yet uncertain, though he wishes to be proven wrong. He strikes harder with his sword, as if to provoke a response from his brother. For hours beneath the shade of the Great Wood's dying trees, he strikes his hardest, tiring. Basch pretends not to know what troubles him, defending, parrying on occasion. They speak only through their breaking blades.

At dusk, Landis burns and bleeds as the skies do, enflamed and engulfed by war. In the approaching distance, Noah hears the cries of his neighbors, tortured and killed. Staunch stenches of all sorts of smolders reach his senses. He fears this war will reach his mother, will kill her before her limited time. If the path to their home is open, he will run and collect her. So long as she is safe in his hold, the war will not touch them—of this he is frighteningly sure, as misdirection for his fear of this conflict. He dares to look, to plan; Basch pulls him back to the tree they hide against.

"Are you mad?!" hisses Basch, gripping Noah by his decorated collar. "If they see you, you'll get us killed! Is that your plan, Noah? To die for nothing?!"

Noah shoves him away. "And is your plan to be a roaring coward when our mother needs us most?" he counters, again looking around the tree. "We must go to her! She'll not survive without our aid!"

"You forget yourself, brother! If we go to her, they'll have our heads! Mother would not want us—"

"Bastard!" spits Noah, hastening away. "I'll not stomach your selfishness, Basch! Mother would not— _will not_ want a thing if we leave her! Can you not imagine the brutality she'll suffer at the hands of these tyrannous Imperials? How could you live with yourself?"

Basch lowers his head, and does not answer. Noah does not want to believe his brother's insolence, yet it is of little surprise to him. He already knows what Basch wants to say, will not say: _"I would rather only imagine than have to see it—or suffer myself."_ When they catch sight of soldiers in colorless uniforms, Basch cannot hide how beguiled he is by them, by their neutrality, by their promise.

All the years of Basch shying away from his duties to care for their mother culminate into interminable action: he runs to those soldiers, and leaves Noah behind. He leaves Landis, their father's failure, their mother's legacy behind. Noah is rooted in place, seeing Basch's continuous leave though he and the soldiers have long-since gone. Endless days of shouldering Basch's burdens without a word all implode within Noah's memories. He should have known it would come to this.

Any love Noah feels for his brother is replaced by hatred, burning hot as the trees around him as he runs home. Never to ashes: Noah vows to keep this blaze as his reminder that he can never know another with any certainty; never to trust.

His limbs and lungs scorch in his fatigue as he crosses the capital's borders. Chaos terrorizes the peace he once knew—Imperial soldiers hide in their suits of armor, making jest of Noah's neighbors and elders; violating human sanctities all to assert their authority. The capital's women suffer the point that Landis has lost; the men hang by nooses from the Great Wood's trees, theirs severed. Noah does not linger on the violence there. He will find his mother and save her from those possibilities. In his resolve, he believes he is invisible. He cannot believe anything else; he has no choice; he'll not give in to the despair around him.

Noah's breath of determination is choked from his throat. Rough rope wraps around his neck, skin shielded only by the length of his hair and rich collar. He reaches to grab the rope, that his fingers might create an opening for him to breathe; cold metal of handcuffs stops his efforts. He makes to run, spotting his mother face down in the mud close by; metal, again, kicks the backs of his knees, forcing him to fall. The Imperials pull at his noose, calling him _hound_ , spit over his silks dirtied by Landis' mud. This is too surreal for Noah to register. He cannot comprehend his struggle. He sees his mother before him. In a way, he has succeeded. She is safe with him. The mud covers the fear and plague in her face.

She does not look at him when the soldiers lift her hips in the air, and lock her legs apart with traditional Archadian bondage. Landis burns hotter when the Imperials defy her, humiliating, laughing; Noah cannot see for the white-hot blaze that overtakes him. This is why Basch ran. Noah watches, so forced by the steel and rope around him, above him. Instinct tells him to scream at them to stop. He chokes again by this noose, tightening, slow to kill him, slower than the Imperials have killed his mother, killed her pride first before her body. They have embarrassed her to death. The mud around her face is still. She no longer breathes. They continue, they take turns, they know she is dead, they enjoy themselves.

Noah remembers the men hanging from the trees, wondering if his father is among them. He wishes the soldiers would finish the job and hang him, cut him and his impertinent arousal. This pain is so dull it blunts him to nihility, to nothing. He does not realize right away when and why they have stopped.

"Captain Drace!" exclaims the soldier restraining Noah, letting go of the rope.

Thick steel covers the Captain's voice, yet Noah knows she is female. "What have you done?!" she shouts, rivaling the encroaching flames in her fury. "I gave no order to _have your way_ with the citizens! This is absolutely inexcusable! I will see to it that you are all discharged and sent to Nalbina for your heinous crimes!"

The Imperial soldiers behind Captain Drace all hasten to arrest the offenders. Medics soon arrive to check the condition of those left behind. Noah is the only one still alive. He hasn't the awareness to wish he were dead. He has not the strength to flinch when the captain approaches him, kneeling down at his side. They have already taken his mother away to be buried, or cremated. He has no reason to look anywhere, not anymore.

"Poor boy," she whispers, removing her helm, and Noah's constraints. "Words can never express how terribly sorry I am… Those men were under my charge. I should not have trusted them on their own." Drace does not stand and leave as Noah expects. Her sympathy is genuine. In his hollowness, he senses her contemplation. "Do know that I did not wish for this—any of this. The Empire is not as evil as you believe. I considered what would become of the ashes. And here you lie before me as my worst fear."

Another pair of steeled footsteps disturbs the mud, approaching behind Drace. "Captain," says the male voice, oddly cooled in the wake of recent events. "I heard your shouting. Was it as we feared?"

"Commander Zargabaath," addresses Drace, lowering her head. "Our men have no humanity left. The violence at court has done nothing but dehumanize them. It's affected this young boy. You know me, Commander. I cannot stand by without correcting the Empire's mistakes."

Zargabaath steps toward Noah, kneeling as Drace does. "Can you speak?" he asks. Noah stays silent. "I must also apologize on the Empire's behalf, as I am certain the captain has done. You have a fighter's build. I am sure we can see to accommodation for you in Archades, if you would allow it—perhaps the military." Allow, not allow; Noah feels he has no direction over this outcome. "What is your name, young man?"

His only remaining direction is that he will not run as Basch did. Despite the Empire's cruelty, he has no choice but to allow these Imperials to exert their sympathies over him. Noah speaks of the only name aligning him to the Empire: "Gabranth;" his mother's maiden name.

* * *

Gabranth is allowed his own quarters on the airship that transports him from Landis to Archades. Cold metal and artificial air are his only company that night. He faces away from the door, and kneels down on the steel floor. Before him, he sees the image there, burned, of his mother's shame, and his powerlessness to stop it or to quell his barbaric reaction. He lowers his silk trousers to his knees, exposing himself, and draws the knife he carries on his person for protection.

His hand sweats and trembles as he holds the sharp blade to the base of his barbarism, hesitating. He grips the hilt of the knife, prepared one second, unprepared the next. Tears stream down Gabranth's face as a child, as they should have done when he was trapped between that noose and the mud, unable to act or react as a proper son should have. He is no better than Basch. The end culminates here as a new beginning—here he vows to find his honor, to repent for his failures. He will not give in to his sorrows. He puts the knife away, fixes his clothes, and wrestles with his nightmares on the cold floor.

Basch should have been there with him, suffered the nature of their mother's death with him. He will never forgive his brother fleeing from his responsibilities: sharing in Gabranth's trauma, helping him to see that he is not alone in his wickedness.

Gabranth climbs his way through the Imperial Military Academy as a man clawing at the rocks of a mountain. He knows there is no zenith. He knows the base of the mountain is but an illusion. He climbs to continue climbing, not to reach the top. It is the journey that sates him above all else: to be in continuous motion, to avoid stopping and lingering on the events that brought him here. He prefers legal work in the Academy, finding the justification in things unjustifiable; avoiding clashes of blades whenever possible. Anything to not be reminded of Basch, how they played together and loved as brothers in the Great Wood.

Archades is a city of air and metal, unnatural, with machines that power cars through the skies by magicite and human ingenuity. Endless horizons and lifting terraces connect the Empire's stone-white buildings, their doors as red as the blood Archades once shed for her land. Here, Gabranth is surrounded by nobility: men in the silks he once wore in Landis, and pale-skinned women with such high cheekbones, lace and corsetry covering their every imperfection. He never dares look at a woman except for Drace when she addresses him. She understands why he cannot keep eye contact for long.

In his mid-twenties after finishing his final classes in Academy, Gabranth wanders the streets of the Upper district in his uniform. Stripes and medals displaying his legal aptitude adorn his chest. His hair is clean-cut, military short, his face freshly-shaven. He has but an hour before he must return to the Imperial Palace for his graduation. Before that, he is forced to contemplate. This graduation will determine the shape of the new mountain he must climb. Until then, he is in an uncomfortable stasis, a slave to the goings-on around him. That slavery brings him to the lower district of Old Archades, to the brick buildings modeled by Landis' poorer quarters. He goes to a drinking hall, not to drink, but to investigate the likeness here of his homeland.

Such loudness, of men in their drunken enjoyment with their brothers and friends: Gabranth stays to the corners of the dilapidated building, smoothing his bare hand along the cold brick walls. He knows he attracts attention with his uniform. An old, white-haired man approaches him, asks in a crass-sounding accent what Gabranth wants. He has no answer; the old man smiles, wickedly, commenting on Gabranth's shyness, and guides him through the hall to another, larger hall behind a thick door.

The sight mortifies him with arousal.

"I know, boy, I can see it in your eyes," says the old man, clapping Gabranth's broad shoulder. "You can tell me you didn't come here for this. I know better. I know you did. You're the repressed type—you want it. Pay as much coin as you want and they're all yours."

Women in chains, torture devices, or else lying vulnerable on the floor—all slaves to the men above them, whipping, grabbing, gagging, and forcing in consent in exchange for pay. The black of their corsetry is not the lace Gabranth remembers of the Empire's noblewomen. It is hard as steel, unable to be penetrated; their heels lift their feet at dangerous angles, pointed in style for the men to admire, to hold onto or to suck in their fetishes. Such sounds of enjoyment the women make—Gabranth knows these will echo, as will the sights. The first such sight echoes loudest, that of his mother—how he failed to save her, how he _reacted_ , despite himself. He wants to cry, to howl as he should have that night.

Gabranth cannot help himself, again. He forgets his convictions and runs back to the military barracks. He is alone, all of his peers having left in early celebration of the day ahead. He kneels upon the floor next to his bed, pulls out his knife, pulls down his trousers, and again, he hesitates. He knows he is too weak to go through with it, for the pain would be unimaginable. He fixes himself and leaves as quickly as he arrived.

When he arrives to the palace for his graduation, he is twenty minutes early and out of breath. Attending nobles, other graduating students and the Academy's staff all stare at him, thinking Gabranth strange for fussing this much over arriving before time. For years, he knows they have all seen him as the poor Landisi that Drace and Zargabaath took pity on. No matter his credentials and accomplishments, his history follows him most loyally. He knows they gossip, perhaps even Drace and Zargabaath, yet he will not flee, not as Basch did. He remembers what the Empire did to his mother, to Basch, to all of Landis, yet Gabranth finds power in staying loyal to his blood's enemy. He justifies the unjustifiable solely in choosing to defy his brother and holding this hatred close.

The sight of Drace in her Judge Magister armor and cape still reminds Gabranth of that night. The sights he fled but moments ago are still fresh in his mind. Drace sees his troubles, guiding him down the hall. She is wise not to comment on them, for she knows Gabranth will not confide in her, or anyone else.

"Your Honor," speaks Gabranth, respectful. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Drace scoffs lightly in jest. "Spare me, my lord," she replies; it is here that Gabranth notices where she is leading him. "You will be most delighted to know that Emperor Gramis wishes to oversee your graduation—personally. His Excellency has been privy to your progress in the Academy. So long as you present yourself as the dedicated man you are, I believe the Emperor will be quite _commending_."

Gabranth finds it curious how Judge Drace is beside herself with glee. She is clearly hinting at positive prospects, yet Gabranth is too distracted by earlier events to decrypt what she means to say. They reach the throne room at the pinnacle of the palace, overseeing all of Archades, walls open as eyes, glass windows shining in the dusk's darkening light. This dusk reminds Gabranth so of that day and night, how it complements the warm wood of the room, as warm as blood, stolen from Landis' forests.

Of a sudden, Gabranth feels at home. Drace can tell as to his comfort, walking with him across the long carpet of crimson to where Emperor Gramis sits in wait. His old age struggles to show itself through his graying hair, his face forever caught in a frown. If not for those outward signs, Gabranth would think him a man as young as he. Such stories Gabranth has heard of the Emperor's loyalty to Archades, stories he has quietly admired—it is a wonder to meet the man in person after these years of his residence here. He'll not spout his praises and be embarrassed by such a show; Gabranth keeps these to himself, showing them instead with his patience to allow the Emperor to observe him for as long as he does.

"Thank you, Your Honor," speaks Gramis to Drace, first. She bows, placing her hand over Gabranth's shoulder before taking her leave. Once the double doors shut on Drace's exit, the Emperor then continues: "Young Gabranth. I take it you must be in shock. You are but a graduating student of the Academy, and you have not bowed to me. I'm humbled." Gabranth hastens not to bow, but to kneel, head lowered with the nape of his neck exposed. Emperor Gramis chuckles with the amusement only old men possess, and then clears his throat. "It's quite all right, my young lord. I understand. This is your day, after all. I should be the one bowing to you for your completed service to the Empire."

Gabranth takes this as permission to stand. He does so, feeling awkward all the same. "My apologies, Your Excellency," he says once he has found his voice, clasping his hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, and eyes forward, but distant, as he learned in the Academy. "I am ashamed for forgetting what is required of me. I cannot offer any excuses. I am not worthy of your leniency—truly, I'm not."

"Judge Zargabaath did not over-exaggerate, I see," comments Gramis. "You are indeed most severe in your behavior. While it is an admirable quality in the eyes of Archades, I do hope you take care. Or that perhaps you directed that energy toward a task more productive than belittling yourself."

"Your Excellency?" asks Gabranth, not understanding.

Emperor Gramis smiles, humming in approval. "Both Judge Magister Drace and Judge Magister Zargabaath have put your name forward as a possible recruit for the Magistrate," he clarifies. Humanity finds Gabranth's eyes, widened in shock. "They wish to make you a Judge following your graduation. If all goes well, they believe you would fit most splendidly as Judge Magister. After studying your transcripts and recommendations, I agree wholeheartedly that you are destined for the position. Before this, however…I must ask you of a serious matter."

Gabranth reminds himself to not trip over his words in his excitement. He cannot remember the last time he felt such elation. "Of course, Your Excellency," he replies, with dignity. "You will have my full honesty."

"What of your twin brother, Basch fon Ronsenburg? You must surely know that he is now a trusted member of the Order of the Knights of Dalmasca. I am aware that he fled your homeland while you chose to stay and protect your mother. If your employment one day forced you to clash blades with him in the name of the Empire, would you hesitate to strike him down?"

"No, I would not. He is a traitor to my mother's blood and legacy—that of Archades. He is an enemy of the Empire, and will be cut down by my blade, orders or none. I'll not hesitate to punish his cowardice if ever given the chance."

Emperor Gramis slouches forward, head lowered, as if saddened by Gabranth's response. He sighs, resuming his posture. "Very well, Lord Gabranth. Your ruthlessness shall find an apt home in the Empire's embrace. I will honor you as a Judge on the condition that you answer to me above all else—even your own desires for revenge. Do take care to not allow your hatred to drive you…"

* * *

For five more years into his early thirties, Gabranth can claim nothing to his name—not his armor as Judge Magister, not his medals in battle, not his quarters in the Imperial Palace, or the Archadian air he breathes day in and day out. Nothing except this hatred for Basch he feels is his. With each scandal at court, with Gramis' eldest sons, most notably Lord Vayne closest in age to Gabranth, or the more frightening tales of Doctor Cid's rush to madness with his research, Gabranth feels the urge to leave that much stronger. With the news of Cid's son, Ffamran, how the young lord fled the Empire to become a sky pirate, Gabranth remembers how he stayed locked in his quarters for days under the pretense of investigating the boy's whereabouts. He resisted the need to leave then; resisted the allure of following in his brother's footsteps. There should not have been any allure. If Basch represents cowardice enough to run, Gabranth vows to embody courage enough to stay and face the consequences of his troubles. Gabranth stays in Archades, as if chained; forcing himself to recall the pride and admiration he felt when he met the man most loyal to Archades and her people. With the murder of Gramis' two oldest sons, Gabranth feels the Emperor's lack of presence and power. As with none else, the Emperor's clear sadness worries Gabranth beyond measure.

On the eve of Gabranth's latest operation in the Kingdom of Dalmasca, he visits the Emperor in the throne room. Gabranth removes his helm, nestling it in the bend of his arm at his side. He kneels, waiting.

"Judge Gabranth—" Emperor Gramis coughs in succession. Gabranth displays his sympathies for the Emperor's illness with patience, as always. "Forgive me…I had not noticed the change about you. Your hair is shoulder-length…not as long as a maiden's, as my son Vayne so enjoys his. I am unused to it."

"It is as Lord Vayne ordered, Your Excellency," supplies Gabranth, for formality's sake. He knows the Emperor is well-aware of the nature of his impending business in Dalmasca. "If you find the style overmuch, I will make all the more haste to return to my previous appearance before we next meet. Lord Larsa was quite vocal in his disapproval."

"Ah, yes…my youngest son is not one to keep his opinions to himself. I assume he is oblivious as to why it is you and Vayne soon depart for the Kingdom."

"He is oblivious, yet I am most certain he will discover the truth from his sources by the morrow."

Emperor Gramis coughs again, before ordering: "Stand, Your Honor. You should know well enough by now that these formalities are hardly necessary. You have been loyal to me for some time now. I—appreciate your service."

Gabranth stands, frowning in his concern. "You are unwell, Your Excellency," he states. "It is not my wish to risk any behavior that might offend you, or otherwise worsen your condition."

"Then tell me—why did you agree to this operation?"

He knows he cannot lie. There are no eyes here to watch him, no ears to hear him save for Emperor Gramis. "It is my first and only chance to bring shame to my brother's name," replies Gabranth. "Lord Vayne is aware of my—history with my brother. He thought of our plan of attack with my strengths in mind, how it is I can further manipulate Dalmasca's credibility and who they choose to serve her. If we can convince the people that not even the King's guard is trustworthy, they will have no choice but to approve Vayne as their new Consul."

"Preposterous!" exclaims Gramis, startling Gabranth in his suddenness. "If my son means to fool the trust of Dalmasca's people in those who protect her, why, he sees them as mere tools for his enjoyment. Are you not aware of this, Your Honor?"

"I am, Your Excellency, yet I have no choice. Dalmasca's surrender by signed treaty, Vayne feels, is not enough. Dalmasca may yet any day decide to ally with Rozzaria and overthrow the Empire. Vayne believes he must cripple Dalmasca's resolve entirely in order to eradicate their potential rebellion. He wishes to control the Kingdom by his own hand with King Raminas' death…"

"…by Basch fon Ronsenburg's hand, ever loyal to the Kingdom. Or, should I say, yours, in disguise…"

Gabranth's change in appearance speaks for him. Years ago, he feels Emperor Gramis would have had enough strength to stop this spiraling scandal. Yet his illness will take him soon—for this, Vayne has planned. In the mean time, Gabranth hopes to maintain his semblance of loyalty to the Emperor, the true voice of Archades. It would not bode him well at all to defy Vayne's wishes with the prospective emperor in such a—possible—position of power. He knows he is torn at this crossroad. All he can do is move forward by following whoever pulls his leash on any given day.

If he is a hound, loyal by nature, he will choose his loyalty smartly. Partial to Vayne, fully to Gramis, always to Larsa's innocence; ever-aware of what time will soon dictate of His Excellency's remaining life.

"…very well, Judge Magister Gabranth. Go as you will, for the Empire."

* * *

In the Kingdom of Dalmasca, Gabranth stands alone in King Raminas' throne room. Dressed in his brother's bright military garb, he stands over His Majesty, leaving the knife within the King's bleeding wound. He says nothing as the Imperial photographer collects the damning evidence against Basch, whom he hadn't the chance to see or speak to that night. With the chaos beyond the Kingdom's walls after the Imperial invasion, Gabranth felt Dalmasca too trusting to leave her most precious borders unprotected. Once the photographer is finished, he hides his camera beneath his Royal Knight's disguise, leaving Gabranth alone.

Gabranth knows he should feel guilt for destroying a Kingdom—as Landis was destroyed. He should feel angry that Vayne had not allowed him to battle with his brother Basch for this uniform. He wishes to regret not personally overseeing Basch's sentence to Nalbina for the crimes he did not commit. Instead, as he watches the King's robes soak further with blood, Gabranth feels as a hound again, guided with the prospect of food held out before him—or his brother's blood to spill. He cannot hope for anything else, brimming with fury, smelling the King's wounds and wishing they were his brother's instead.

Killing King Raminas is not Vayne's only order for Gabranth to fulfill on this humid Dalmascan night—he is to kidnap the Princess Ashe, the only remaining heir to the Dynast King's legacy, further throttling Dalmasca's efforts at recovery and rebellion. He takes his leave of the throne room. Vayne finds him on his way to complete this last request, offering more clarification.

"So you do not hesitate for the Empire," comments Vayne, handing Gabranth a set of keys. "Good. How admirable, Your Honor. I am most pleased that His Late Majesty did decide to sign our Terms of Surrender. With his signature writ in royal blood, no less. Now all we must do is throttle Dalmasca's line of succession. After we take the time to mobilize our forces and station them within the Kingdom, and of course clean up this— _mess_ of a Palace, I shall take my new role as Consul."

They stop before the Princess' chambers, where Imperial forces in disguise stay on guard. "And what of the Lady Ashe?" asks Gabranth, needing to know all of what he must do. "If you only wished for a simple kidnapping, you would accompany me inside. It would be a swift effort indeed, my lord. You make it sound as though you have further orders."

"Yes, in fact, I do," replies Vayne, most amused of a sudden. "'Tis my understanding that you are not one to, how shall we say, _get out_ as much as I do. Now is the perfect time to make up for your long nights working hard for Archades and her people."

"My lord," speaks Gabranth as Vayne makes his leave. He hides the panic from his voice; he knows he is not allowed any emotion under oath to Lord Vayne on this night. He wishes, how he wishes Vayne, in his wickedness, is not implying what he thinks he is. "I do not understand—"

And then Vayne says the words, on purpose, sharply: "Have your way with her, Your Honor. Traumatize her. Make certain she hates you as Basch fon Ronsenburg, and screams to all of Dalmasca during her kidnapping that you are a Kingslayer _and_ a rapist. We do need a witness, after all. When we return to Archades with her, I shall check myself to make certain you have done as I said…"

Vayne disappears down the darkness of the hall before Gabranth can think to object. The Imperials stationed at the entrance to Princess Ashe's quarters are in Vayne's good graces—they will know if Gabranth does not follow his orders, and they will tell the Lord Vayne if this comes to pass. Flashes of that night, that time flare within, of his mother, of his failure to protect her, how she died in shame; Vayne knows. Vayne knows his history. Vayne wishes to test Gabranth, to control him, to manipulate him as a mere pawn in his grand scheme of war and conquest. This request, this order reeks of those villainous intentions.

Gabranth unlocks the door and enters, slow to close the wood behind him. He doesn't expect the Lady Ashe's quarters to be this neutral in temperature. He blames his stoicism in dealing with this unwanted matter, dulling his senses. He does not take note of the room, its make—Gabranth sees her asleep in her wide bed on the far side of the candlelit room. He is wholly focused on her sleeping form as he walks toward her, quietly. He remembers all the times he forced himself to look away from a woman, to ignore his urges, forever reminded of his sin that night. This is the one secret none could know of him, not even Vayne with his expert prying.

He stands over Princess Ashe, observes her in her delicate, white night wear of smooth Dalmascan silks. She is young—not young enough to make this even more inhumane—yet her youth, her undeniable beauty, and above all, her vulnerability stirs Gabranth. She is entirely unaware of his contemplation. He takes note of the lines her body forms, the curves, where, and why; how her hand finds herself between her legs, her limbs fooled into thinking she has the privacy to explore. If she knew she was not alone, she would scream, protest, and refuse, all the while denying her own sick arousal over what was to come. Or if she was not aroused, it would matter little to Gabranth—he would find enjoyment by his orders.

That tension finds him again, stifling. Countless times he has dreamed of sex, wishing he could know of the powers that drove those men to defile his mother so. He hates his curiosity; he holds it close, knowing he will never dispel these needs. And here lies the Lady Ashe, delicate in her powerlessness, able enough to be the one Gabranth uses to wield that power.

Suddenly, Ashe awakens, startled. "Captain!" she exclaims, breathless, pulling the sheets over her body. Anger and awareness find her soon after. "Captain Basch, explain yourself! What are you doing in my—"

"Silence," orders Gabranth, clamping his hand over her mouth. He grips her jaws in his hold, asserting. "You must tell me—did you and Prince Rasler consummate on the night of your wedding?" Ashe makes to pull Gabranth's wrist away; he knits her smaller hands together with his free one, locking. When she does not nod or shake her head, Gabranth settles his knee over the bed, on her other side, hips pressing, making her well-aware of his instincts' intentions. "I will let go of your jaw—you will answer."

Ashe shouts her answer once Gabranth removes his hand. "I did, you monster! There is nothing for you to take! I thought I trusted you—!"

Gabranth muffles her voice once more. "Your reply is most welcome, Your Highness," he goes on, finding his sense. Vayne cannot do anything to him. Such relief Gabranth feels, it dulls his tension. "Now you will scream, and allow me to tear your clothes. On my honor to the Empire, I'll not do more. To all else, I terrorized your body. Do not ask questions." Ashe pauses in her resistance beneath him. She is clever enough to realize what this truly is. "Godsdamnit, woman, scream!"

At the first tear of her silks by Gabranth's hands, Ashe screams to the night air of her chambers. Gabranth controls his urges, remembering his promise to her. She is already wet from her earlier touching in that illusory privacy she had moments ago. Eventually, she stops her struggle against him, at last believing his words. For a time, Gabranth wonders if this scene has added to her pleasure; if he has traumatized her as a limited mirror of his own troubles. Planned minutes pass before the disguised guards enter, taking Princess Ashe away.

"Most splendid," says Vayne upon Gabranth's exit. "I did not think you capable of such cruelty, Your Honor. I must thank you for proving me wrong. Now, let us escort your dear brother to his new home in the Nalbina Dungeons before returning to Archades with the Lady Ashe. I do believe I may check for myself if you did indeed follow through—perhaps more than once. She is quite the tempting maiden, is she not?"

* * *

Two years pass before Vayne assumes his post as the Empire's Consul to Dalmasca's fallen Kingdom. Basch remains imprisoned in the Nalbina Dungeons, out of Gabranth's reach. He is forbidden from seeing his disgraced brother, per Vayne's orders. In retaliation of this order, Gabranth urged Lord Larsa to watch over Princess Ashe—to keep her away from Vayne's womanizing displays. Now that the young lord is yet twelve years old, Gabranth wonders if perhaps Larsa has figured out as to why he has been tasked with protecting the Lady Ashe this closely. However much Gabranth wishes to believe in Larsa's continuous innocence, he is realistic enough to know that two years of private conversation are more than enough for Vayne's brother to know what happened.

Larsa has been gentle in his requests for Gabranth to see to the Lady Ashe's freedom. He knows what he asks for is futile, yet he asks anyway. He wishes only for peace in the world, for Ivalice to no longer have to worry of war, of sickness or starvation. Should the Princess take her place on Dalmasca's throne, Emperor Gramis would surely agree to peace between both nations. This is what Larsa believes; the boy in Gabranth believes the same.

Gabranth has not felt the need to attempt his own vasectomy in a hopeless effort to rid himself of his sexual cravings, not since the day of his graduation. He was young, then. Foolish. Now he has found his place in Ivalice, as Vayne's hound, watching him on Emperor Gramis' word. He is not wasting away in prison as punishment for fleeing his homeland, thinking his mistakes would not catch up to him. On this night, he is appointed as Vayne's guard during the new Consul's banquet in the Royal Palace of Rabanastre. As planned, the Insurgence working to free Princess Ashe has blown their cover by mobilizing an assassination on Vayne's life. Imperial forces have started their ambushes in the Garamscythe Waterway beneath the Royal Palace, and air raids on the palace grounds by airship above. Vayne suspects there may yet be more surprises lurking about the halls of the palace, thus he orders Gabranth to locate any offenders.

Helm removed to hear any intruders more closely, Gabranth paces about the walkways, steel crushing against marble and carpet, searching. He moves in the direction of the treasury housing Dalmasca's royal relics, thinking any thieves may likely take advantage of all the confusion. His decision is justified when he hears a familiar, male voice calling to another. He does not consider the nature of that familiarity, for he has found someone else walking about the halls—someone decidedly foreign to him.

Viera, no doubt—those long, pointed ears and heeled feet speak as much. Long, thick hair of endless white kept up in a tail, and black filigree wear hard as metal, covering little and all at once. She stops as she nears the corner that would shield her from his sight, turning to face him. Expressionless, the scarlet of her eyes pierce him wholly, turning truth around in Gabranth's mind with such confidence.

She fools him for a time brief into thinking he is the intruder, not her.

"Fran?" calls that male voice, loudly, as if he fully believes they could not run into any guards. "Fran, where have you gone? I've lost you! I daresay any of the guards worth a damn might hear me calling to you and decide to arrest us! And we wouldn't want _that_ on our record, now would we?"

Fran places her hand along the bend of the corner, digging her long, claw-like nails lightly into the surface there. She stares at Gabranth, still daring him to either act or turn away and pretend he never witnessed this. When her partner turns the corner, Gabranth recognizes the young man straightaway: Doctor Cid's son, Ffamran, now the infamous sky pirate living under the name Balthier. Balthier makes a sound of surprise upon seeing Gabranth, coming to a halt with such swiftness, as if Gabranth might forget they saw one another if he disappeared quickly enough.

"You weren't lying," comments Balthier to the Viera. "When you said you smelled steel, I thought you meant something we could _sell_. Not this tin can for a man. I doubt he'd fetch much at market, anyway. Unless—"

"Lord Ffamran," addresses Gabranth, causing Balthier to frown in disgust. "I do not appreciate your contemplation aloud of selling me for profit, nor will I stand idly by while you steal from the palace's treasury. However, I am willing to allow the two of you to take your leave, so long as you forget our meeting ever happened."

"Oh?" asks Balthier, smirking. "Judge Magister Gabranth, hound to the Empire, is willing to bargain with sky pirates? What oh what does he have to hide if he's willing to work with us at all?"

That tension has found Gabranth again. It will not leave him for as long as this Viera is in his presence. It would be too complicated, too messy to arrest them—he would have to touch her. He needs her to cease her staring, for she knows what she has caused between him, within him. She is too keen, she senses too much; he has no defenses in the cage of his flesh. He needs them to leave— _now_.

"Do not question my kindness, Balthier," amends Gabranth. "The two of you will take your leave, and I shall turn a blind eye to your indiscretion." Fran regards him as though she knows his every thought, his every intention, whether she does for certain or not. He feels he will break under that weight. He is unused to anyone having the nerve to stare, to figure, and here this woman does it by nature. "Yet…I cannot promise to your guaranteed escape should you cross paths with the other Imperials."

Balthier sighs in faux dejection. "I suppose we haven't any other options, do we?" he asks, rhetorical as Gabranth remembers him. "Well, we can't very well turn down such an offer. My partner and I shall take our leave." And now, too late, Gabranth notices the bulge in Balthier's pockets—he has already taken his prize from the treasury. Balthier smirks one last time at him. "Do take care, Your Honor. And I hope you learn to pay better attention to your surroundings next you decide to bargain with sky pirates—or anyone for that matter."

When they leave, Gabranth resists the urge to strip his steel and find his knife. He knows they will meet again. He knows he will break again, quietly. He will find a way to control that inevitable meeting.


	2. For Freedom

Mere hours pass before Gabranth hears of the sky pirates' incarceration in the Nalbina Dungeons. With the Insurgence's rebellion in Rabanastre suppressed by the Empire's superior firepower, he takes his leave to Nalbina under Vayne's orders to interrogate Doctor Cid's son. As expected, Gabranth is not allowed to visit his brother in the Oubliette. Both orders, Gabranth discards as he walks through the parched, desert underground of Nalbina with his Imperial guards, through to Basch's imprisonment area. Stone and sand sound beneath his boots as he remembers one prisoner in particular that he should have visited long ago.

In a cell near the Repository, fully exposed, lies the man who killed Gabranth's mother. Embarrassed her to death. His white hair is long and brittle, his wrists bleeding with old, infected wounds from handcuffs never removed. His bruised, sunburned body withers away, emaciated, yet he still breathes. The guards at Gabranth's side know not why he chooses to stand and stare at this man. As the years passed, Gabranth recalls wanting less and less to take revenge on him. All resentment, all hatred lies solely with Basch and his decision to run. Gabranth feels nothing for the prisoner, but a byproduct of Basch's cowardice. He leaves the man alone to continue rotting on without a word.

He feels as though he is being watched as he resumes the path to Basch's Oubliette.

Once he arrives to the more ventilated area of the Imperial guards' quarters, Gabranth can no longer pretend something is not amiss. He hears the distinctive sound of high, sharp heels along the stone ground behind him, pausing on occasion. Between the pacing of other guards, he hears another pair of footsteps of steel, much lighter than that of the Imperials'. If a clever pair of prisoners was to escape the dungeons, they would no doubt think to go through the subtlest exit in the Oubliette. They are clever indeed, but subterfuge is not at all their strong point.

Gabranth turns to one of his guards. "We have followers," he speaks, quietly enough to not raise alarm. "It will be a Viera and a male Hume together. Return the Hume to his original cell near the courtyard. But the Viera: have her sent to the Captain's quarters. Only I am allowed entry. See to it that she is bound— _traditionally_."

"Yes, Your Honor," responds the guard, discreet in his change of direction. All others at his side follow.

Only the mystic with powers to unlock the Oubliette's magical defenses stays at Gabranth's side. As Gabranth waits for him to finish the incantations, he hears Balthier struggling down the hall. Sharp scuffs of heels note Fran's presence with him. Gabranth is pleased enough with this, dismissing the mystic. He enters through to the Oubliette alone. He needs this time with his brother without prying eyes or ears.

Twenty long years Gabranth has waited for their reunion. He cannot do a thing to his brother, locked in this cage hanging above the steep drop to the sewers below. Basch's hair is like the other prisoner's: long, brittle, growing only to die, yet still golden. A scar runs across his left eye and his beard has overgrown, distinguishing twins from one another. Every show of bone where muscle should have been—it disgusts Gabranth, for he cannot remember his brother as anything but his own mirror in appearance. It is this sight, the consequence of Basch's failed honor that drives Gabranth to anger.

It is because he feels sympathy for his brother when he should feel only hatred.

"Kingslayer," growls Gabranth, removing his helm. Basch gapes at him. "How the mighty have fallen… This is your just reward for fleeing our homeland. I have wanted only to pierce your flesh with my blade since the moment you ran off to Dalmasca. _You impetuous_ _coward_!"

Those last three words echo through the Oubliette in Gabranth's rage, endless. He cares not if he attracts concern, or if Vayne decides of a sudden to find him here. Basch has the decency to flinch, to fear. That burning from twenty years ago rages and festers on, blazing through Gabranth as it did to the Great Wood and the plagued. He should reach through the bars of Basch's cage with his blade and put an end to his brother's worthless, miserable life. The thoughts show in his face; he makes to draw one of his swords.

Basch pleads with him, "Brother, you mustn't forget yourself," he urges, his voice scratched with fatigue and disuse. "I have wanted only to drill some _sense_ into that thick head of yours. This does not have to be an aggressive affair. You are Judge Magister. You cannot allow your emotions to get the better of you—"

"Silence! All was stripped from me! Only hatred for the brother who fled our homeland remains mine!"

Basch gives a weary sigh. "Is that it, then?" he asks, low. "You forsake your humanity by giving your service to the Empire, completely unfeeling? Never do you question your orders, or why you truly wish to serve a people who believe that war is the singular answer to every conflict? How could you side with the very men who killed Mother? Isn't that a far greater betrayal to her than what I did?"

"Archades runs through our blood, from her. I betrayed nothing in my decision. You have sided with the Empire's enemy. You spit on her grave each time you take up your sword in the name of the Kingdom. I uphold her honor by serving the Empire. I do not question my orders."

"Then why are you here, brother?"

Basch poses the question as though he knows Vayne's orders, and that Gabranth has gone against them.

"You cannot answer me," continues Basch, "For you know I am right. When I left, it was because I knew Mother wanted only for us to be happy, far away from the Imperial conflict. She left the Empire and married our father to _get away_ from Archades and the corruption there. Or have you forgotten?"

"Bastard!" spits Gabranth, backing away. "You'll not feed me those lies!"

"You have been so preoccupied with your misguided hatred that you have forgotten your roots, Noah!"

"Noah is dead! He is dead! Do not call me by that name. He died with Mother, in her shame! He died when I allowed the Empire to care for me as an illusion of Mother's continued embrace through death. She cannot run away from her own blood, and neither can I. Your games and lies are finished."

When Gabranth turns to leave, Basch counters, "You are better than this, brother." His words give Gabranth pause. "We may not have seen one another in two decades over, but I know you still. The armor you wear cannot shield your heart from mine. You are conflicted in your servitude; otherwise, you would have kept your ordered distance from me! If you insist on upholding your honor, you must choose it wisely. Do not place it in the hands of a bloodthirsty Empire who will sooner cut you down than allow you to have your own freedom!"

 _Freedom._ The word stays with Gabranth as he exits the Oubliette, however much he wishes Basch could not affect him so. He makes his way to the Captain's quarters, contemplating the notion of freedom. He decides he is unworthy of such a thing. His body's freedom is what allowed his barbarism too many times over. His heart's freedom is what causes these embarrassing displays of emotion. His mind's freedom is what triggers too many possibilities in thought as he nears this door.

Gabranth does not trust himself to be free. He would have killed his brother and forsaken his status in the Empire by openly defying Lord Vayne's orders. He will not give up his credentials or accomplishments to sate his multi-faceted barbarism. He will hold his hatred close, closer, and control it, as with all else.

He hesitates, holding his hand over the handle to the door. The Viera is within. _Why_ did he give such an order to his guards without thinking? He must face this, lest he seem weak in the face of the opposition. Thus Gabranth enters, locking the door most securely behind him.

Face-down, bent over, Fran stays upon the stone floor near the foot of the bed. Bound traditionally by Archadian standards, her wrists stay handcuffed behind her back, her thighs stay locked apart—as his mother was. Here, Fran is exposed. Gabranth sees and scents the glint there between her as he approaches. She struggles on occasion, moving, shifting about, and panting.

Gabranth will never understand why a woman's struggle excites him so. He kneels before her, hating this excitement. He lifts her chin, forcing their eyes to meet: his are calm, hers are full of ire. "The two of you believed you would escape through the Oubliette?" he asks, simply to hear himself speak. He knows he has no control over this situation. His speech and her silence offer solace to his afflictions. "Or was that but a test for me, to see if I paid attention to my surroundings?"

Fran ignores his questions, asking instead through gritted teeth, "What do you _want_ with me?"

"Do not play games with me, Viera," asserts Gabranth, unwilling to be fooled twice. "I recall the way you stared at me in the Royal Palace. You found me on purpose to distract me with your inhuman charms, that you and your partner might get away after making a fool of me. If you would be his whore, then you know precisely what it is I _want_."

"Then take it, Hume," replies Fran, oddly cool of a sudden. "I'll not scream. You are free to do as you please with my body. Despite your power and these chains, you will never take my freedom from me. That is all I care for."

This woman is no whore. Gabranth has misjudged her. That word, that toxic word, _freedom_ , she has spoken. They are free to express themselves. In her fortitude, Fran goads him to express all. No matter her shackles, she is liberated in her individuality. Such envy Gabranth feels; he must touch, to know her courage. That courage, he feels its lack within him, mind and flesh. He cannot accept this shame. He moves behind her, allowing but one indulgence for now, though it feels as far more than that.

Length of her thigh, he takes in his hand, kneading up. Fran quiets her stimulation, yet Gabranth hears it nonetheless. Whispers of more, she gives, epicene in her expression, stirring, winding him to planes he never realized. The glints of her arousal smooth down between her, meeting Gabranth's steel. He leans his head closer, tempting, nose placed at the drip's end, following it. If ever freedom and faith could be described as a scent in one, here it belongs to Fran; Gabranth comprehends naught else other than his want to set her coverings aside and taste, and drink if it would please her. He breathes, struggling to maintain his senses through this inevitable hardening.

He does not know if he is welcome here, or if this is yet another trick to fool him. His mind already suffers the friction of Fran's fair temptations.

"You hesitate…" notes Fran, shifting again, sighing again. "Why? I am unable to flee. I sense your want clear through your steel. You see the evidence of mine. Do not prolong this…"

Fran's dares to act fume through him, as she does. He cannot go through with this. He has no power to assert over her. She would but fool him again if he acted on his wants, though they remain not as secrets to either of them. Or he has fooled himself into thinking as such. He cannot decide. He does not know her, does not trust her to be the first to claim his intimacy. Worse, he does not trust himself to have this freedom and not think of the constraints that bind him still—those of his mother's memory.

"No," speaks Gabranth, freeing Fran from her shackles. "I'll not give in. If you bear such convictions, then I am in no place to act of my own will. Leave me, if that is what you wish."

Fran stays kneeled upon the floor, eye-level with him. "You are an odd man indeed," she comments, mildly perplexed. "You have never touched a woman, Hume or not? You behave as would an inexperienced boy who only dreams of his wants. Are you not a man fully grown?"

"My age speaks only of the desperations I have suffered to remain inexperienced."

They remain in silence for long minutes. He nurtures the notion that she somehow understands. This patience in her gaze, the serene surprise that lingers—he wants to believe he has won her favor in his decision, though he made it out of cowardice. Her favor should be none of his concern.

And yet it is. Fran is. As tightly as the flames of hatred have held him for decades, he _feels_ her company.

"How curious," notes Fran, whispering her nails along Gabranth's jaw. "I wonder if this is at all related to our places in Ivalice. Considering how last we met, you would think the two of us enemies. My partner has fled your Empire to live a life of freedom. Is it not your wish to apprehend him?"

Gabranth resists the urge to look away, to lower his head; to escape Fran's enduring gaze. He'll not flee. "I have orders to interrogate him, but they are superfluous," he supplies. "More importantly, I am uncertain as to why I am telling you any of this—anything. By all accords, we should indeed be enemies. Yet you feel not at all as such."

This calm, this reliance on his intuition, however partial—Gabranth has not felt this for a woman, not even Drace. His care for his true allies in Archades is not quite similar to this; here, he is open—emotionally, sexually—despite his cold logic ordering his silence. If this Viera truly lives a life of freedom, she has no means to judge or to tamper with Gabranth's struggles. He should not pass such a judgment after but two meetings, and one brief conversation.

Yet the same impetus that justifies his honor is what pushes him to this place with such a stranger.

"You must leave," repeats Gabranth, standing with her. "Take your partner with you. The way to the Oubliette is open. You shall find out the truth about me there. Once you do, and you still claim to feel this _want_ for me, only then will we speak anew. I know not what this is…but it cannot move forward if you know not the truth."

Fran smiles with her eyes alone—it is enough to move him. "You will know how to find me."

Gabranth calls to her as she leaves, "You speak as if you know already what it is, and you are unbothered by it."

"Perhaps," is all Fran says before exiting the room. With but one word and an aura of coyness, she has fooled him thrice over.

* * *

Weeks pass before Gabranth is given more work in Archades. Before this, he spends his days loitering in court, ascertaining that none of the other Houses wish the Emperor Gramis any harm for their own benefit. He also learns the news of his brother's escape from Nalbina—no doubt Fran and Balthier's doing. The Imperial Senate realizes what this means, thus they have dispatched their tool in the Kingdom's Insurgence, a man named Vossler, to find Basch and lure him back into captivity. Such news did not stir Gabranth with the anger or hatred that would have overwhelmed him over a fortnight ago. He feels that animosity toward his brother still, yet it has diluted past his comprehension. Once-powerful memories and revenge fantasies he held before have faded as watercolors in mind and heart.

During this interim, strong bouts of listlessness overtake him. He keeps to his quarters for abnormal periods of time, forsaking meals, often lying in bed or re-reading legal texts he studied too many times over during his days in the Academy. Often is he drawn to cases citing racial discrimination between Viera and Humes. He considers his surroundings: how only Humes are allowed in the Imperial forces, how he never sees any Viera walking about Archades. Gabranth wonders if the Empire's xenophobia has affected him at all, not only with the other races of Ivalice, but in common practice. The Viera who have left the Wood deep in the reaches of the Golmore Jungle did so for their own freedom away from the Green Word and her dictations over their lives. They take pride in their freedom; embrace it wholly. Gabranth's hatred of Basch and his decision to flee Landis dulls because of this similarity. His brother's words on why he fled, what their mother would have wanted, and choosing honor: now he sees it is not a crime to leave one's homeland if they feel the decision is justified.

He wonders if his sudden indolence has anything to do with her.

Fran has been in too far, too deep in the reaches of his mind, his hand and more. Regrets accost him—for not taking her, for being too distant, for not being more alert for information on her whereabouts, for allowing her and Balthier to free Basch and learn the truth. He knows he is powerless to cease his thoughts of her—of how, with few words, she is so keen to know of him all he has buried and killed. He wants to believe he is correct in guarding his heart from her charms, for he convinced himself long ago that he can never know another in this way.

And when the time arrives, it is not that he is set a task he feels obligated to complete—he finds out valuable information on Balthier from Doctor Cid that he cannot ignore, for it also concerns Fran.

Gabranth meets with Doctor Cid in Vayne's chambers, alone. Though, he feels they are not at all alone in this room, for Cid speaks on to an invisible entity, ignoring Gabranth's approach. This has gone on since the time Lord Ffamran fled the Empire, no longer recognizing his father, what this research did to him. Cid's drive for power by means of manipulating magicite—the crystal gifts from the gods—has driven him to madness, speaking to invisible entities over his shoulder, and rambling on always about the Occuria and the Ancient City of Giruvegan, both tales of old. Gabranth suspects the Doctor works most closely with Lord Vayne if he is allowed this freedom to linger about Vayne's quarters. How closely, Gabranth does not wish to think on.

"What was that?" asks Cid, turning his head as if to address someone. Gabranth frowns behind him, waiting dutifully. "Hmm, yes, yes, yes…you have a point. He could be useful. _Very_ useful indeed." Cid at last decides to turn and notice Gabranth. "Ah, Your Honor! There you are! Thank you again for the information you supplied about my son. I have taken the liberty of confiscating my property from him. Stripping his wings may prove useful in tracking him down once again, don't you think?"

"Your property, Doctor?" echoes Gabranth, unclear.

"Why my airship, of course!" supplies Cid, most pleased with himself. "The so-called _Strahl_ he flies about all of Ivalice, the one without even the means to fly through the _Jagd_ regions. But, this is the important part—I leaked some information that one of his enemies, the Bangaa bounty hunter Ba'Gamnan, stole the ship and left with it to Bhujerba. Now, I chose Bhujerba for a clever, clever reason indeed…" Gabranth stops himself from tuning out Cid's words. He has grown bored of the Doctor's infatuation with hearing himself speak, but this story will inevitably lead him to Fran. Thus he listens. "…a few of our most valued sources have informed me that Marquis Ondore, who resides over Bhujerba, is the leader of the Insurgence. If my son is truly out to get me, he will no doubt reach out to the Marquis now that your twin brother is free. They must be conspiring together! I'm waiting for it, Judge Gabranth. I am!"

"And what do you want of me?"

Cid stares at Gabranth as though his memory has failed him. "Oh, dear…it seems I can't recall," he says. Gabranth clenches his jaw, unwilling to let his irritation show any further than this. "Lord Vayne asked me to remind you to check on the fledgling young Larsa. I cannot fathom how these events are related. Do come tell me if you notice a trend, will you?"

Gabranth bows. "I will do so," he lies, and takes his leave.

Fran and Balthier will be in the Skycity of Bhujerba with Basch. He will have to speak with his brother once more. He knows not what to expect. This uncertainty, he is unused to. He must find a way to compose himself and his thoughts. Gabranth plans his departure and behavior as he makes his way to the Lady Ashe's quarters where Lord Larsa will no doubt be. As he makes his way down the hall, Judge Zargabaath finds him.

"Your Honor," addresses Zargabaath, formal as ever, but Gabranth can tell already as to his troubles. "There is a matter we must discuss…" He gestures toward Drace's quarters nearby. "If you will accompany me."

They enter, finding Judge Drace pacing about. "Judge Gabranth," she says, relieved. "I worried we would not find the chance to have this conversation before you discovered the truth. It concerns Lord Larsa and his growing preoccupation with the Empire's international relations."

"I know the young lord wishes for peace," supplies Gabranth.

"Indeed," agrees Zargabaath. "He means to secure the Lady Ashe on her throne in Dalmasca. Although Lord Larsa assures me the Princess also wishes for peace, I find little reason to be convinced. She very well despises the Empire for all that has transpired. She may bargain for peace with Larsa in exchange for her freedom, yet Lord Vayne suspects she will reach out to the Insurgence and Rozzaria both in order to seek revenge."

"Does Vayne seek to incite war against Dalmasca should the Princess take the throne?"

"We cannot know," answers Drace, "Not for certain. The Senate believes he will begin warfare regardless of her place in Ivalice. Considering his _doubtless_ hand in murdering his eldest brothers, we believe he may wish harm upon Lord Larsa for his inevitable actions in freeing the Princess from Archades."

"We must protect him," adds Zargabaath, grave. "Drace and I have come to the agreement that his desires for peace are most sound. Both Judge Bergan and Judge Ghis will disagree, naturally."

"Naturally," agrees Gabranth, his sarcasm known only to him. The word is Archadian code to keep the information within the walls of this room, within the shaken foundations of his conscience. Irritation overtakes, overwhelms him, inexplicable. "Have you any suggestions?" he asks, curt. It is as if he knows, yet he cannot grasp the future in his hands weakened already by the present. "Anything you feel I must do to protect Larsa?"

Zargabaath pauses, masking his concerns, his offense. "Yes, Your Honor, but you'll not agree," he warns.

Drace says it, as she must: "Watch over the young lord— _vigilantly_." She emphasizes the last word with such severity; Gabranth wonders as to the full possibilities. "He will no doubt ally himself with your brother's comrades. He will aid them. If Lord Vayne discovers this, his treachery against Larsa will be a silent, venomous one, lest it leads to yet another _untimely_ death within House Solidor. We have every reason to believe Vayne will resort to violence with his remaining family in order to take the throne. If we must aid Dalmasca and her allies to protect Emperor Gramis and Lord Larsa, then so be it. We must stay one step ahead."

Zargabaath offers further, damning clarification, "This also means you must speak with your brother. For the sake of the Empire's peace, for Ivalice's peace, Larsa will reach out to him to assure the Princess' safety. Tell him all you know. Maintain your old grudges if you must, but do not seek to harm your brother, lest you believe yourself capable of taking up your arms for the Lady Ashe in his stead."

 _Do not seek to harm him_. Old flames burst and deflate within Gabranth's chest. He cannot stay here. He cannot break before Drace and Zargabaath, who have both raised him through their Archadian distance and sympathy, with Drace ever wont to support him through his silent demons. Yet here, what they ask of him—they will never understand his anger, non-anger, and this myriad of emotions unknown to him.

And now they ask him to bury his dwindling hatred for his brother all the more. Already Gabranth is ashamed of the dwindling, as if he could never hope to hold anything for certain—not even his honor to the Empire. This hatred is the only constant he has held in his life, in his heart ever since Landis burned, and all of his childhood with it.

He does not think himself capable of staying afloat amid this winding chaos without that constant.

"Is this an order from my superiors in tenure?" asks Gabranth, stoic, to maintain his countenance.

"No," replies Drace. "'Tis a request from your colleagues, your comrades," She places her hand over Gabranth's shoulder, "Your friends, and your family. We do not wish for the Empire to fall to war and chaos…not as Landis did."

"Will you consider it?" asks Zargabaath, hopeful. "Lord Larsa will place his trust in you. He will tell you his wishes and hope that you'll not betray him to his brother or the Empire. Will you be his shield?"

Whatever his private struggles, he is loyal to Emperor Gramis, to Lord Larsa, to Judge Zargabaath and Judge Drace for precisely all they have done, all they have cared for him. _They_ are the Empire to him. This is all he can do to repay them for all they have done.

Gabranth bows to hide his heart's stuttering. He knows he can never return from here. "If this is your wish, I shall carry it out with all that I am," he declares. "I will go to Lord Larsa now to make certain of his plans. If he decides to leave, I will follow and make my intentions known to him as soon as I am able."

He leaves, back down the hall to Ashe's quarters, wishing to feel renewed with new orders to follow, yet not feeling at all as such. Gabranth feels he should be gladdened by these prospects, whatever his betrayals to Lord Vayne and Doctor Cid: their impossible thirsts for power and control. This is a new task to hold onto; a new path to take. He will not break without his hatred to hold him together as the man he was before this conflict. Larsa will not want to see him disgraced.

When Gabranth arrives to the closed door, he feels his apprehension too keenly. He knocks, feeling as though he is intruding.

"Come in!" calls Larsa, sounding panicked.

The moment Gabranth enters, he is unsurprised to see the Princess attempting to hide a satchel with her belongings. Larsa's private guards wait at either side of the door, and by the windows. They do not draw their blades, instead waiting for Larsa's order.

"You are escaping?" asks Gabranth, to Ashe.

Ashe sees no point in it hiding any longer. "I am," she asserts. "I have been your Empire's prisoner for long enough. Larsa has convinced me that it is time for me to take my place on Dalmasca's throne as Queen. Please, for your own sake, do not say you mean to stop me, for I know you disagree with my incarceration here. Whatever hand you had in bringing me here…I know where your true loyalties lie."

Larsa steps forward, confident. "'Tis the perfect plan, Your Honor," he says, bright with hope. "Now that your brother is free, he can resume his post as the Lady Ashe's guard. He can help her find proof of her lineage and take her seat on the throne! She will have the power to negotiate peace between Dalmasca and Archades with my father. We must hurry, and see to this end before this illness takes him. If my brother succeeds him before this can happen, he'll not allow it. Don't you agree that freedom is best?"

Gabranth can offer no immediate response. These events have blindsided him. He expected to go about his own personal conflicts with little-to-no changes in the Empire, in the Kingdom, in all of Ivalice. The thought of no longer having to navigate the labyrinths of lies and treachery in the Empire, to have the freedom to do as he pleases…

"Judge Magister?" asks Larsa, concerned as only young boys are able. "You look as though the prospect of freedom only frightens you… How can that be?"

Princess Ashe scoffs. "He is naught but a tool for your bloodthirsty Empire, that is how," she supplies, bitter. "Without a King to slay, without lives or families to destroy, he has no purpose. There is no one in this world who might take him as he is once this is over. No doubt he will be broken. He will wander as the hound he is, never knowing freedom while the rest of us bask in it."

She leaves with Larsa's guards on those last words. Lord Larsa tries to speak, to apologize for her behavior, yet he cannot form the words, for he believes she may be correct. One last look of sympathy is all he gives to Gabranth before leaving with the Princess to Bhujerba. Fran or not, Gabranth has no choice but to follow, contemplating the whole way.

* * *

Gabranth catches up with Larsa and Ashe as they flee the Imperial Palace, sharing the young lord's private cruiser to the Skycity of Bhujerba. Larsa has dismissed his guards in favor of keeping only Gabranth at his side. His child-like hope is that his guards will not betray him to Vayne, yet Gabranth's fully-grown cynicism doubts such a notion. During the day-long flight, Gabranth listens to the Princess discuss her plans of peace with Lord Larsa. Already they speak as monarchs of their respective lands: with Larsa as Emperor once he succeeds his father; Ashe as Queen once she has located proof of her heritage in order to convince the people of Dalmasca that she is not an impostor. The trouble their disappearance has no doubt stirred in the Empire: this they ignore, fully believing that the future is in their favor. Their only option is to move forward.

"And you, Your Honor?" asks Ashe as the cruiser nears Bhujerba floating amid the night sky. "Is it truly your wish to see Larsa's dreams become a reality? You did not hesitate at all to follow us. How can we be certain you are not acting under orders of Vayne or Cid?"

Gabranth fears he will never grow used to this, any of this: speaking with the Princess, an enemy of the Empire, while under strict orders from his comrades to assist her so long as it is Larsa's wish. "How the skies have changed," he comments, vague. "Nonetheless, Lord Larsa is my charge. By extension, as are you, Princess. I shall prove my loyalty once we locate my brother and his comrades…"

"Judge Gabranth," speaks Larsa in concern, "Is something troubling you? Are you perchance apprehensive to see your brother again? 'Tis my understanding that you've not spoken with Captain Basch in twenty years since the incident in your homeland. No doubt the two of you must hold certain disagreements. I am grateful that you are willing to put those aside, at least for the time being."

The cruiser has landed in Bhujerba's aerodrome. Gabranth exits, allowing his silence to fill the void. Ashe and Larsa follow after him in quiet worry. Do they care for him and his troubles? Larsa, certainly, but Gabranth cannot fathom the Princess sharing in that sympathy, not after all that has transpired.

"Now to locate them," notes Ashe, walking at Larsa's side. Gabranth slows to match their steps. "Where do you think they might be? Didn't Cid mention something about his son's airship and a bounty hunter?"

"Yes," replies Larsa, "He did. If I were a Bangaa bounty hunter with a most precipitous grudge against someone, I would seek to lure them into a trap. Perhaps the Captain and his sky pirate comrades were led into the depths of the Lhusu Mines? They will surely find their way out once they realize the truth of the matter. If they are able enough, of course."

They both continue discussing, planning, and hoping as they pass along the winding cobblestone streets of the floating city. Gabranth remains vigilant for signs of threats, eyes behind his helm scanning the citizens and buildings. He considers discarding the cape along his back with the Empire's emblem. Or perhaps tearing it in two and wearing it that way. One side for Lord Larsa, Emperor Gramis, Judge Drace and Judge Zargabaath, and the other for Vayne, Cid, and any else in the Empire who wish for power through control and warfare.

When they reach the entrance to the Lhusu Mines, there they find the trio catching their breath after their escape: Balthier, Basch and Fran, looking worn after their battles. The first to notice Gabranth is Fran. She has found her breath, now, upon regarding him, standing up straight while the men keep their hands over their knees. She turns her body toward him, waiting as he approaches with Larsa and Ashe at his side. Fran now knows the truth of who the true Kingslayer is, and she is not deterred by it. Such a revelation rouses Gabranth past measure. Basch is the next to notice, leaving Balthier to ramble of their adventures, ignored. He pales upon seeing Gabranth, neither of them knowing what to expect. When he sees Ashe in tow, the color returns to Basch's face, replaced with hope.

Gabranth stays his hand from reaching for his blade, for other things. Larsa steps forward, brightly addressing their new allies.

"Good evening to you all," he says, bowing. "My name is Larsa Solidor, and I have come from the Empire with the Princess Ashe in order to seek your aid. It is a matter of great importance that affects all of Ivalice."

Basch bows to Ashe, first. "Your Highness," he addresses. Ashe nods to him, smiling faintly. "How relieved I am to see you unharmed." He is careful to avoid Gabranth's eyes for the moment, though he notices those very eyes are locked onto Fran. "And…Lord Larsa—are you not the Emperor's youngest son? What aid could we possibly supply you? We are but vagrants attempting to find our own way in the midst of all that has changed in the last two years."

"I understand," asserts Ashe, "This must seem strange to you—the two of us seeking you out in such a way, and with us in the company of a Judge Magister, no less. I can assure you, all will be clear once we have the chance to explain. If we might retreat to someplace private for you to rest, we will answer all of your questions."

"For the record," adds Balthier, "Keep in mind that you're dealing with sky pirates, Fran and I. We certainly don't mind offering our aid in whatever plans you have in mind, so long as there is a certain promise of a payoff, if you will."

Ashe sighs in disappointment. "Yes, I gathered as much," she replies, sour. "I shall find some way to repay you for your assistance, only after we've come up with a plan of action. That will have to suffice."

Balthier grins, satisfied. "Well, then by all means, lead the way, Princess," he speaks, smooth.

Basch again stops himself from addressing his brother. Gabranth ignores his attempts, following after Larsa and Ashe. Balthier and Fran stay in tow, silent, yet by their energy, Gabranth senses that they're discussing with one another through private code. The two of them are quite close. Gabranth is of a sudden paranoid of their true relationship, if Fran means to again use him for some means to further Balthier's interests. He cannot keep up with such thoughts, not with Basch this proximal. His attentions are as divided as the cape along his back.

When the group makes their way to a quiet inn far-removed from the rest of the city, Gabranth cannot, does not cease his wonderings: poisoning his brother's drink, or perhaps slitting Basch's throat in his sleep; worse, what Gabranth might do with Fran if ever they were left alone in a room together again.

Again, Gabranth remembers his orders. He must resist.

Larsa, Ashe and Basch sit with one another at a round table in the corner of the lobby, discussing the many possibilities and conflicts they may yet face. Gabranth stands near their table, back turned to them, watching the many other patrons about the room to make certain they do not eavesdrop. Balthier remains at the bar, desiring to be caught up with the plan later, after a few pints. Fran accepts his offer of drink, speaking only a few words to him before moving to where Gabranth stands, staring at her.

And then she is speaking to him, softness of her accent and scent and all.

"I believe we have business yet unfinished, do we not?"

"We do," he replies, his voice foreign to him in this deepness. "Have you anything in mind, my lady?"

Fran offers a small smile, making her way to a table on the opposite side of the lobby. She turns to look at him over her shoulder, beckoning him with her eyes to follow. Gabranth has the decency to turn to Basch first, asking without words for him to stay on guard. His brother understands enough, nodding. Thus Gabranth follows Fran, sitting with her, across from her. He forces himself to keep his eyes to hers, and not elsewhere. She taps her glass of white wine with her long nail, clinking; thinking.

"Your helmet," she speaks, desiring for him to remove it. Gabranth does so. "Last we met, you spoke of your need for me to learn the truth before this could move forward, and I have. It did not scare me as you predicted it would."

"Did my brother's words fail even to faze you?"

"They did," supplies Fran. "He assured me your sense of honor is what drives you. I see the truth again before me, how you defy your Empire by allying with us. I find it best not to stay locked in the past." At that, Gabranth looks away. Fran sees an opportunity; she seizes it. "In Nalbina, the situation was quite unfair. I could not do as I wanted with you…"

Gabranth must remember to steady his breathing under such stimulated strain. "How might I make it up to you?" he asks, hoarse. He is putting power in her hands. He wants it there; he should not. Such liberation in not worrying over these weights, by allowing Fran to have this over him—this peace is unimaginable, despite his nerves. He needs this calm, something else to focus on, for he knows he will break without this white, weightless freedom kept afloat by his arousals.

Fran crosses her legs beneath the table, pointing her heeled foot against Gabranth's armor. "I must know something of you first," she begins. She sips her wine, holding the glass between practiced fingers, waiting. Gabranth listens, far more attentive than before. "You are broken, are you not?"

Gabranth wishes he did not understand her meaning, yet he does.

"I sense the pieces about you," she goes on. "You are shattered. All that maintains you now is the hatred you have for your brother. And even that, I sense, is fading. Your calmness before him speaks as much. Will you choose to die with it once it disappears?"

"No…I will find another way to survive," he assures himself, not Fran. "I will find another path. For now, I shall serve Lord Larsa and further his interests. I will protect him and the Lady Ashe as he has requested. I hardly have room to consider much else."

"Then I will consider for you…and you for me."

Gabranth's throat has dried in his perplexity. "Why?" he asks. Fran narrows her eyes. "Why do you care for me so, knowing that I am but a shell of a man? I cannot hope to give you all that you expect of another. You see through me with such intensity…surely you know that I am incapable."

"Do not debase yourself, Noah…" Fran drinks again. She knows what she has caused within him. He stops his trembling. He won't turn back. "If you are truly a masochist, then I shall nurture your shame by my own accord." On purpose, she spills a few drops of wine along her ankle. "Clean this mess—appropriately."

Without protest, Gabranth lowers himself underneath the table. On his knees he stays, holding her long leg in his hands, cradling. He does not think, does not think to think; he presses his lips to her affected skin, tasting the wine away. Others sitting nearby stare at him in question, commenting among themselves. He cannot care. He inhales the smoothness of her limbs, eyes closed, needing to offer this servitude to her. Down to the dark steel of her heels the wine drips; this he drinks, sucking residue of the paths she has walked, tasting her history.

At this, Fran cannot hide her mild quavering. She runs her nails along his scalp, sighing. "You will have your freedom with me," she promises. "Welcome it, embrace it…you hold within too much devotion for me to ignore. Walk with me, won't you? I'll not lead you astray."


	3. Lower in the Desert

Three evenings later, Gabranth sits in the inn's lobby with his new allies, listening for now. Princess Ashe has come up with a sound plan to achieve her goals. He is not yet convinced that she truly wishes for peace in Ivalice, let alone to come to an agreement with the Empire for such. As he listens, with Fran sitting at his side, he finds his hold on his skepticism slipping by the second. He recalls how he doubted Fran's intentions, and here they've spent their days discussing with one another, finding common ground: how he learned of Fran's heritage, the ways of life of the Viera in the Eruyt Village and how contrary it is to her beliefs; how he spoke somewhat of his Landisi origins, growing up on a continent of wood and earth, much like she did. He listened to her adventures with Balthier, how they found one another in the Port City of Balfonheim six years prior; she inquired of his previous life in the Empire, his days spent in the Academy, suppressing and ignoring his urges—precisely why, Fran did not ask on.

And now they have found one another in the midst of conflict in a land that offers promise of freedom, denying it in patches. They agree that Ivalice is but an illusion of peace.

"True peace," spoke Fran, hours before as they strolled through Bhujerba with one another, "I believe, we must find within ourselves. Only then can we begin to offer it to another. From there it spreads. The words of a monarch cannot hope to instill the same inner quietude as one would find on their own. That is why Balthier and I do not agree with this crusade your Princess has begun with the Emperor's son. So long as there is monetary gain and the promise of adventure, only then will we follow."

Gabranth recalls his reply, "And if Archades, Dalmasca and Rozzaria all remained at war, destroying all adventure and leaving you with nowhere to go, would you hold onto your personal freedom or fall into inevitable despair?"

How Fran smiled with her cleverness. "Your history in legal studies has absented itself from you. I have read adequately on the laws of Humes to recognize your error. Was that not a leading question?"

"It was. I did not mean for it to be. In the same vein, you have given me your answer…"

Such ease he feels around her. It ought to be forbidden. He should resist it, yet he does not—not fully. He is fine with how she dictates their progression: slowly, through engaging conversation and welcome challenges of their beliefs. Anything more than this, Gabranth imagines only as a vast forest the same color as he with these things. Thus he returns his attention to his comrades, observing them.

Balthier is relaxed in his chair as he listens to Ashe; he will no doubt be most appreciative of the conversation once she proposes her reward to him and Fran for their assistance. Basch again looks at Gabranth from across the table as though he wishes to speak. Gabranth agrees with his brother's distance, thinking him wise to hold this fear close. Larsa's regard of Ashe falters, noticing the conflict between them. He says nothing, too polite to interrupt.

"The Dawn Shard is the key," says Ashe, decisive, decided. "Past Dalmasca's Westersand and through the Sandseas beyond lies King Raithwall's Tomb. Only descendants of the Dynast-King, such as I, are allowed to access the treasure within the Tomb's depths. If I were to claim the Dawn Shard, the nethicite would respond to my heritage. My people will have to accept me as Queen if I return with it."

"Yes, however," adds Larsa, "'Tis not the people's acceptance that stands alone in our path. All of Ivalice must also take this move with the utmost gravity and approval. Dalmasca lies powerless between the Empire and Rozzaria. I cannot officially offer the aid of Archades until I succeed my father."

"Then we will seek Rozzaria's aid. Once we return to Rabanastre with the Dawn Shard, might you contact your allies there? I believe you mentioned Al-Cid Margrace. Could he not help us?"

"I shall write him at that time and we will wait for his favorable reply, most certainly. Until then, let us rest for the journey ahead. I am afraid my airship is unable to see us through the _Jagd Yensa_ regions of the Sandseas. We ought to wake early and set forth for the Westersand as soon as we are able."

"A moment," speaks Basch, urgent. "What of Vossler, my ally within the Order? Brother, did you not mention something of him? Details we would benefit to know? Could he not aid us on our journey if his goals align with our own?"

Gabranth regards him, solemn. Old grudges can no longer hold, not among the company of witnesses. "He is a traitor to Dalmasca," he announces. Basch stares in horror, in disbelief, yet listening all the same. "As much as I sit here before you as your ally, your former comrade does the same with the Imperial Senate. Much like the Marquis Ondore, he works closely with both Archades and the Insurgence—"

"The _Resistance_ ," corrects Ashe, dignified.

"—the Resistance," amends Gabranth, scowling over the interruption, "In order to ascertain the Empire's goals as an insider. Avoid him and the Marquis both if you wish to mask the Lady Ashe's plans."

"Then we cannot linger in Rabanastre," replies Basch, "Not until we retrieve the Dawn Shard. I have trusted him as a friend and fellow knight for several years. I will want to hear his testimony. He will know of our intentions if I were to speak with him…"

Balthier stifles a yawn. "That sounds all good and well," he begins, "And now, what of us?" He leans closer to Fran, settling his arm over the space between them. "We agreed to escort you and help you defeat the troublesome monsters and other such nuisances you'll no doubt find on your way. What was it in exchange for? I can't seem to remember…"

Ashe bristles. "A reward," she reminds him. Balthier's fatigue leaves him posthaste. "It is unlike me to entrust my affairs to thieves and sky pirates, mind you. But, if you insist on a form of payment, hear this: within the Tomb we're to journey lies a legendary, invaluable treasure. I will take the Dawn Shard for myself and leave you to keep the other relic we're to find. Will that satisfy your bargain?"

"Mmm, yes," agrees Balthier, "I believe that sounds _more_ than attractive enough to risk limb and life for in the endless desert out there. Well, it will satisfy _my_ bargain, at least." He looks to Fran. He does not make a point of regarding Gabranth, yet by the energy about him, the desire is there nonetheless. "It appears you've decided on your reward now. Or have you?"

"I have," responds Fran, standing up to leave. Gabranth stands with her out of habit, politeness. Basch does the same, followed by Larsa. Irrational, Gabranth glares at his brother. Though Fran does not smile, her aura softens at the gesture. Larsa frowns, confused; he excuses himself to his room upstairs.

Balthier stretches in his seat. "It seems that's our cue to have an early night," he declares, slow to stand. He makes his way to the bar. "I think I'll have another round of whiskey before I turn in. And perhaps see if I might bring any along for the road. There's no telling how long we'll be out there for, traveling on foot—some months, I'd wager. Does anyone care to join me? Fran? Oh, what's that? Too preoccupied with other drinks, you say—?"

"I shall accompany you," consents Basch, following after him. Ashe stares at them for a moment before retreating to her room. "I've not had a drink in years. I may have forgotten the taste after all this time."

"At least you _know_ the taste, somewhere," comments Balthier, his voice drowning out with distance. "Some of us haven't a clue what they're missing out on. 'Tis quite a shame, really…"

Fran places her hand along Gabranth's armored bicep, her body facing the stairwell. "I have a feeling you require this night alone to ponder what is to come, in a way. As do I," she says, letting her touch linger as she leaves. "We will speak again in the morning."

"My lady," allows Gabranth, watching as she goes. He stays in place until Fran disappears up the stairs. Basch stares at the exchange. That is enough for Gabranth to leave to his own room, unable to meet his brother's curious regard. He knows he is unable to provide a response with his eyes alone.

* * *

Gabranth sits on his bed in the chill of his room, shirtless, wearing only a pair of silk shorts. They cover little; or nothing at all, given his state. He is upright, as he must be with these thoughts. The wood of the headboard chills his shoulders. He wonders of his possible reactions to Fran's hand, her nails there, how her touch might stimulate him. And that stimulation: how it will drive away these thoughts of resistance, of insurgency against her attractions. Each time he sees or thinks of the Lady Ashe, he relates her to her Resistance, but a play on words; he sees that hot Dalmascan night reflected in her hidden ire toward him. Though Fran knows he is a Kingslayer, he cannot presume she would maintain her calm if she knew what he wanted from the Princess two years before. How that want could also apply to her.

If it is wrong to want such from another, Gabranth would curse this evidence showing itself between him. He has no command over his flesh, easy as a boy in his inexperience. Within his armor, it is simple enough to conceal his longings. He allows Fran's intuition to see him through, see through him, for them to share this quiet understanding. He has not been exposed to such notions of true companionship, not at all—all of court in Archades set a terrible example, with scandals amid every hushed whisper, and lords and ladies inviting their preferred _others_ to gatherings in place of their betrotheds for all to see. Before he grew used to the unfaithfulness, Gabranth remembers wondering why anyone bothered with commitment if they knew they would desire to stray. At the time, it strengthened his sense of loyalty to the Empire, for he knew he would not forsake his duties in exchange for unwarranted pleasures.

And now this has become of him: considering Fran as his duty and his pleasure. He will only consider. He cannot do more, for his pride will not allow it. Gabranth's wonderings dictate otherwise. The possibility stifles him, aches between him; her voice echoes through, her touch ghosts over him. He reaches.

Yet, a tentative knock at the door interrupts him, extending Gabranth's curiosity. Fran said they would speak again in the morning. Is it dawn already? It is still dark out, but perhaps she means to surprise him. He goes to the door, thinking it would benefit him to have her see him aroused over her. Perchance they could finally discuss more—

"Noah…"

Gabranth wonders if he has fallen asleep; if this is all a terrible dream. It is not Fran, but his brother, holding in his arms a set of vibrant clothes that are clearly of Dalmascan origin. Basch frowns in worry, looking down at the inevitable deflation his presence has caused.

"It seems you are not glad to see me," observes Basch, ill at ease.

Rage flares, and Gabranth makes to slam the door shut. "Your jest is not welcome! You will leave, now!"

"Brother, wait!" tries Basch, fitting through the door at the last second. He fits himself through the space. "I should not have made such a crude remark. Please, accept my apology. I only mean to have a word with you." Gabranth moves away from him, again noting the ginger garb that Basch has settled on the nearest surface. "I have brought you a change of clothes for the desert. The armor is light enough that you'll not overheat. I fear your steel may threaten your health should you wander in it overlong."

"I do not want it," claims Gabranth. "Do you mean to make a fool of me yet again? I'll not bother wearing that ridiculousness. No matter the circumstances, I am Judge Magister."

Basch sighs at his brother's stubbornness. "A Judge Magister who risks his demise to the heat of Dalmasca's unforgiving days and nights," he points out. Gabranth will not budge. "All right, then. So be it if your inflexibility will be the death of you. If you believe you might change your mind, or if I've discovered you are weakened by our travels, I will again urge you to reconsider. This is a fair warning."

When Basch does not take his leave, Gabranth asks, "Why else have you come here? To have a word?"

"If you will allow it," replies Basch, lowering his head. Gabranth's silence is permission enough for him to continue. "I'll not bore you with arguments on what happened in Landis. You chose your path, and I chose mine. What matters most is that we are here now, reunited. And—" He stops himself from stepping forward. Basch retrieves the clothes he brought, holding those instead. "I have missed you dearly, brother. Not a day has gone by these twenty years that I did not think on you and wonder how you fared in Archades. Often did I hope of a brighter future when we might meet again and set our differences aside. Perhaps, now, that future is not far-off."

Gabranth scowls at such an assumption. "You dare hold such an opinion now, of all times?"

"Now is the only time—it is the perfect time," replies Basch. "It is quite magical how a woman's influence softens even the harshest of men. I know none harsher than you. If not for Fran, I would not have the courage to approach you for fear you might have my head. The change about you is undeniable."

Gabranth chooses not to respond.

"I figured as much," continues Basch, disappointed. "You hold no desire to discuss much of anything with me, let alone the manner of your affections for another. I had hoped, but it was a foolish wish indeed. I am sorry…" He makes his way to the door. There he stops, adding: "However, there is something you must know of her. When I told them the truth of what happened in the Royal Palace two years ago, Fran displayed a certain coldness I'll not soon forget. It is as if the incident had no effect on her beliefs whatsoever."

"Fran is not one for politics," says Gabranth. They are discussing her now, of course, but he cannot help himself. "She relayed to me that your words failed to faze her."

Basch's troubles grow by the second. "Do you not find that to be cause for concern?" he asks.

"No, and neither should you. You spoke of her influence softening me. Is that not enough for you?"

"I see," speaks Basch, voice low. "You do not care if she were to ever give you that coldness. Or, perhaps, you think the notion impossible. A Viera's intuition is as sharp as a Hume's blade. If she discovers a reason to do so, I assure you she'll not hesitate to treat you with the utmost disregard. After the time I spent locked away in Nalbina, largely alone and ignored, I do not wish to imagine you suffering the same, and certainly not from the woman you care for most."

How ironic that Basch chooses to warn him of such a thing. Gabranth suffered the same in Archades, and still suffers. Basch leaves on that note. For several minutes, Gabranth stays in place staring at the spot where his brother once was. More so than Fran's improbable coldness, he cannot fathom how Basch can treat him with this kindness after all that has transpired. Gabranth destroyed all semblance of the honorable life Basch held, and here his brother tries to bring him clothes and offer counsel on his chosen path. If ever Gabranth became a tyrant who lived only to annihilate what others hold most dearly, Basch would love him all the same. Basch perhaps hinted that Fran's affections for him, too, would not change in the face of her decisiveness.

When Gabranth returns to bed, he stays face down to suffocate this sudden sadness.

* * *

Balthier heralds their day-long flight to Rabanastre in the pilot's seat of Larsa's private cruiser, frowning over the differences from his stolen airship. Ashe and Larsa sit with one another by a window in a strange sort of silence. Basch stays with the pair, unable to ask as to the change in their deportment from the night prior. Gabranth avoids that strangeness altogether, retreating with Fran to one of the cruiser's ventilated cabins. He has waited for this moment for longer than he cares to admit.

"You will sit," speaks Fran, closing the door. There are no chairs, no couches in sight—only a large bed in the center. Gabranth sets his helmet down on the nearest table before sitting at the foot of the bed. "I have given this much thought." She goes to him, taking her time. "Before I act on anything, I desire for you to know this much—but a glimpse of why I am here." Fran sits astride him, settling steel over steel, exposed equally no matter the differences in design. She reaches to place his gloved hands along her waist; encouraging Gabranth to hold her steadfast. "You are, to me, a paradox. You choose to serve; you make the decision by your own accord. Nothing is ever forced upon you. Or is it?"

"There have been…memories forced upon me, certainly," he responds, distracted by her breathing.

Fran moves away, standing once more. She basks in his regret. "So then, which is it?" she asks, one hand over her hip. Gabranth does not breathe, does not ask for clarification. "Do you prefer to give, or to take from another? Whatever your inexperience, you must have an idea of what it is you want."

Gabranth lowers his head in shame. "I do not know," he replies, honest. Fran hums in her curiosity.

"Then we shall find out," she declares, gesturing for him to stand. Gabranth follows the silent order, eager for another. Fran takes his place on the bed. He stands before her, waiting. "Now that you are here, have you anything in mind? Any action you wish to perform on your own?"

Nothing comes to mind. "No, my lady," he tells her. "I desire to perform what you speak to me."

"Entirely?"

That tone of hers, however soft, belies her skepticism. "I am on my guard," speaks Gabranth. "We do not know one another fully. Thus far I have been enthralled by you… But, knowing my history, I fear my cautiousness will win above all else. Never have I been given the chance to express myself completely. Each time I pondered doing so, and could not: they feel as a weight over me. In service, I put another's wants above my own, that I may give myself to them in that manner, without having to remember my many failed opportunities."

"I wish for you to relay those opportunities to me," speaks Fran, at ease, well-aware that she has tied Gabranth's nerves in knots. "But first, you will strip. Your armor intrudes our conversation. I want only your skin until we land in Rabanastre. Look at me as you do it…"

Invigoration and apprehension both seize Gabranth as he follows her instructions. His cape, he unties first, folding it and setting it near his helm, keeping his eyes to hers. All else he removes with some slowness, stripping down to the perfumed violet silks that remain over his skin. Pulsing aches between him become more pronounced as Fran looks there, expecting him to relieve himself of his trousers first. For the sake of being contrary, he removes his sleeved shirt instead. Her eyes roam his muscled build, curving over his shoulders and biceps for the longest. She admires the broadness there, controlling her breathing more than before.

"You are not finished," notes Fran, sultry in her command.

He finishes for her, stepping out of his trousers around his ankles. Gabranth sets his silks aside. Here, he finds power in such liberation. Fran is free to stare as she pleases. He is unaware of her most immediate wants, despite the openness between them. This remaining mystery is what lifts him highest, curving with his curiosity.

Fran crosses her legs, moving her hips to find new comfort. "Of the women you are acquainted with, how have you considered them?" she asks. "Are there any in your circle that you have wanted to bed?"

"My closest female friend is one I refused to consider," he begins. Fran tilts her head, wishing to hear more. "Judge Magister Drace, my superior…she found me at a time when I wanted to end myself for my sins. She cared for me, gave me the life I had in Archades, and supplied me with boundless opportunities. Because of her kindness, never could I think on the possibility of being more to her."

"You see her as an older sister? Or perhaps…more of the matriarch in your life?"

_She knows._

Fear arrests Gabranth, ceaselessly. Basch does not, could not _know_ in order to tell her during their escape from Nalbina. No one else is supposed to know. He never spoke to another soul of the incident.

"And what of the Lady Ashe?" continues Fran. "Do you miss the sounds of her screams?"

 _She knows everything._ But no matter her methods, she cannot know his reaction.

His fear, she tastes in the air. Fran smiles. "How suitable that you stay hard for me," she observes. "I adore your wickedness, despite your aversions. In the few months since our meeting, I have spent many nights wondering how you might exact your sins over me… I imagined you resisted such thoughts, and still do. If need be, I will re-condition you to desire what you deny."

Fran stands, and walks around to the front of the bed. Her scent breezes past Gabranth; he inhales, holding on. She removes her heels, and settles herself beneath the duvet. If she is asleep, Gabranth cannot tell, for he focuses only on her silent order. At the evidence of her movement, how she removes her own armor, he bites down on his lip to keep from groaning. His lower back curls, first, before the rest of his body reacts, stretching to rid the knots of his gathered arousal throughout him. She watches the bend of her legs beneath that shielding fabric, how she opens them to touch. He hears her sighs, and then her breathlessness, how she finds her breath once more; purely effeminate in sound and practice; Gabranth is driven to act, driven to fantasize, driven back to his barbarism that wrenches him tenfold.

Now he cannot decide on the true nature of her order: if it is to forget his control and take her, or if he must stand here and suffer alone. His conflict clenches around him in place of her, her wetness, how he hears it this pronounced as she slicks her hands back and forth. The longer he watches and listens, he is drugged by his growing tension; harder and harder he desires to release it inside of her. Years' worth of need, building, from every source of want he has experienced in life, wicked or not, he must drown her in: between her after fucking her hard, or in her hands after she has stroked him, or down her throat after robbing her of air not coated with him for the sake of his pleasure.

And there she lies in a bed, touching herself as a mirror of his memory. Fran asks him to force himself on her, willingly, with her full consent. If she is not asking, she would scream his crimes to their allies and have him thrown from the airship to the skies…

He stays rooted in place. He will not touch. There is no need—he feels the build, the precursor to his release. His veins root him further, pulsing all the way down when Fran quiets herself. She muffles her sounds, denying him more.

Fran sits up, keeping her chest covered with the duvet. One at a time, she licks her fingers clean. "You are a foolish boy," she says, soft in her taunting. "I am defenseless and willing, and you do nothing to act on your desires. Do not tell me you could not guess as to what I wanted."

"I could not decide…"

She looks down to his erection. "You have clearly decided," she points out with a scowl. Gabranth can only swallow the excess water that has gathered in his mouth. "Were your sins truly so terrible that they limit you even now? No matter your control, you will never force away your sexuality." When Gabranth cannot offer a reply, Fran glares at him. "So it is decided. You will choose your resistance over me."

Guilt registers, now, through the onslaught of overpowering arousals from earlier. "No, I will not—"

"—then tell me, Noah. Tell me the extent of your sickness. Why do you feel the need to hold back? What ails you so that you would resist me?"

White overtakes his mind. Words refuse to form. He forgets his voice, how to speak, thinking only of the fires that ravaged Landis and the darkness that forced his reaction to his mother's manner of death. He fears, he knows, the memories will take him again if he were to touch Fran; he cannot escape the images if he were to take her. They will distract him. He is incapable of focusing solely on her. This will not leave him.

He will not suffer the shame of admitting this to her, only to watch her foreseeable leave.

"Godsdamnit, woman, I _told you_ I am incapable!" shouts Gabranth, unable to hold this in. "Why punish me with your interrogations when already I have explained to you my nature? This should come not as a surprise to you!"

Fran removes the duvet from her body, rising from bed. Even in his anger, Gabranth must force his eyes to remain on hers. He will not peruse her figure, lean at the hips, thickened lower, curving down. Her hair smartly covers her breasts, shifting slightly as she walks over to him. For a long moment, she stands but a breath away from him, matching his leer. Never before this, before Fran, can he recall being intimidated by another; contemplating with such confusion if he was truly in the wrong.

He'll not falter, so says his pride. His growing sense of honor toward her dictates that he grovels and apologize immediately.

"You do not want me as your enemy," warns Fran, relaxed in her tenor. Gabranth does not know what to make of such a claim. "I have prepared myself to be open with you, Noah. Tell me now if you'll not return the favor; if we must continue with this imbalance." He will not risk her reaction to his barbarism. He would rather keep this conflict; keep her in reach with his mystery than chase her away with the truth. Gabranth stays silent. "You are indeed a foolish boy," she repeats. Disappointment does not show; rather, her expressionless chill masks all. "Take your clothes and leave me to think. Do not speak to me unless I approach you."

Depths of illnesses with guilt settle in Gabranth's stomach. Nausea finds him with this sudden light-headedness. Heeding her wishes, now, is all he can do. When he leaves, closing the door behind him, he sees Basch down the hall; his brother sees this sickness about him.

* * *

Some weeks pass with silence between Gabranth and Fran. The group heads through the Dalmasca Westersand to the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea amid this quiet, generally none the wiser as to the contemplation the two share of one another. Basch has not spoken a word to his brother save for the occasional question each day as to Gabranth's well-being in the heat of his armor; or if Gabranth will accept his apology for accidentally allowing sand to creep through the contents of the meals he prepares for them both. When they landed in Rabanastre weeks prior, Gabranth truly considered leaving with Fran to the Estersand instead—to the entrance of the Nalbina Fortress, that he might show her the culprit of his traumas as he explains all. These abandoned platforms of crimson steel they pass over, Rozzarian drilling rigs lifted atop the ebb and flow of sands below, remind Gabranth so of Fran's penchant for coldness. His brother was right to warn him, yet the sting of her chill is not at all lessened by his prior knowledge of her nature. This chill has not halted the growing within his heart. During the rare times when Fran allows him a cold glance, he feels this mounting warmth for her most keenly.

He knows that Ashe and Balthier also sense the tension. The Princess has been wise not to comment on it, instead keeping to the fore and setting the pace of their travels. Balthier has not spoken on it, not within hearing distance; not even a single joke or double-entendre has he made on the matter. Gabranth finds it more than curious that he and Fran share a tent on the nights they stop to rest. He recalls his restless, arid nights spent staying awake, sleeping little, watching and listening for any signs of activity within their sleeping area. So far, he has found none, and often he wonders if his paranoia is but a baseless symptom of his shame.

Larsa appears not to have noticed a thing. He smiles as they pass by alraunes, red mandragora-type monsters atop the other platforms nearby. "They look rather grumpy," he remarks to no one in particular, "But they are indeed quite cute, don't you think? I imagine they haven't a care in the world."

"I imagine so, my lord," agrees Basch. "If that is true, then I wonder why they hold such dispositions. Perhaps it is merely out of habit that they scowl with such vengeance. I must admit I am not much intimidated by them when I consider their small size."

"Size is relative," posits Larsa. "To them, in their community, they appear normal in stature. If they noticed us, it is possible we would frighten them. I prefer not to disrupt their lives over there. It is right for us to avoid their paths. I would feel terrible if we had to slay them in order to pass through."

Ashe comments over her shoulder, "Such a child of sympathy you are. Why have you accompanied us if you will stay your blade for those creatures? You know there is an overabundance of them here."

Larsa smiles wider. "You mistake me for an innocent, Your Highness," he replies. "I would gladly see to their end if they sought to harm us. I shall put their cuteness aside and try not to lament over the loss."

Gabranth drowns out their voices once the Lady Ashe laughs. Basch smiles with them, finding his youth again in allowing himself to be amused by their passing conversation. Envy and cynicism hold Gabranth at once, as strongly as the heat that has built within his armor. This heat is not from the desert, not from the sun above, but within him; his pores steam with the thoughts that will not leave him. He thinks and thinks on a way to again win Fran's favor while avoiding that particular subject.

He knows and accepts that he will have to tell her, eventually. More so, he understands that he cannot continue his days without her care and conversation—without more than that. Fran's absence from his side feels as a void that none other can fill. Months he has known of her, and but mere weeks of that time have they spent in agreed company; it is enough for him to feel his convictions for her this strongly. For the next few days, Gabranth sets himself to the task of seeing how to maintain her affections before the inevitable truth must come out. Yet he cannot do a thing when Fran looks at him with that coldness.

Another night of rest the group comes upon, and Gabranth can no longer distinguish his lungs from his heart within his burning chest. He wanders away from his comrades to take a seat against the chill of the rock formations leading to the Nam-Yensa Sandsea. The air he breathes in does nothing to extinguish him—sand, heat, Fran's absence, it is all the same. Basch has noticed his struggling and runs to him with a canteen. He kneels down at Gabranth's side, forcing his helmet from him.

"Noah!" he exclaims, opening the bottle. "You are unwell. Did I not warn you of the harshness of Dalmasca's terrains? We must change your clothes at once—"

"—you fool!" barks Gabranth, shoving the proffered canteen away. "It is not the heat that ails me!"

Basch pauses a moment. "I did not think her capable of such feats," he responds, quietly. They have attracted attention from the others at camp. "Truly is she worthy of your affections. Forgive me for my error…" He collects the canteen, ignoring the spilled water. "I assume the two of you have not spoken since we began our journey. I do not require an explanation, but you must know that I worry."

Gabranth hates the displays he has allowed in his weakness. His brother understands, standing alone; knowing Gabranth will not accept his aid. Removed from the life of comfort in Archades, thrown into the midst of these unfamiliar conflicts, Gabranth will not allow more misgivings to overtake him. Basch waits for him to stand on his own, and together they return to camp with their companions. Fran and Balthier have disappeared since Gabranth's show of emotion, perhaps speaking with one another in private. Ashe and Larsa say nothing, sitting next to one another by the fire.

After they have eaten, all but Gabranth decide to retire to bed early. Fran and Balthier retreated to their tent some time ago, likely asleep by now. Gabranth remains at the fire, staring into the blaze. Each night, their campfires remind him of Landis. He recalls his mother, her life before the painful end she suffered: her general distance in her prideful deportment, and her manner of compassion by giving her family a life of luxury, as much as possible on a continent of wood and stone. She desired for her sons to be free, free of pain, free of worry or caution.

Basch's decision to leave Landis was justified. At long last, Gabranth accepts this truth. Ever since their reunion, Basch has shown only compassion and kindness toward him. With one last exhale, Gabranth feels his hatred leave him. Those fires that had ravaged him for years since his youth—they have been chilled and extinguished by another, far more powerful allure. With this absence of all that has sustained him during his time in the Empire, Gabranth must stop his weakness from collapsing over him anew.

His thoughts and emotions are startled by Basch's sudden, colorful exclamation from inside of the tent they share. Gabranth turns toward that fabric shadowed by the fire and night sky, watching Basch crawl out, nursing a nasty wound over his arm. Larsa and Ashe both exit their respective tents, going to Basch and asking on the nature of his sudden cries. "A scorpion's sting," explains Basch, docile, allowing Ashe to use her curative magicks over the affected area. "It is not fatal… I over-reacted, for the pain frightened me from my sleep. I must thank you for your assistance." He looks up when Fran exits her tent alone, still in her day wear. "My apologies, Fran. I did not mean to wake you and Balthier."

"He sleeps on," supplies Fran, sounding not at all fatigued. "'Tis most difficult to wake him before time. Not even an earthquake would rouse him from his slumber."

Fran allows one regard of Gabranth. Her previous coldness is no longer there. She goes to him, sitting across the fire. "You are different," she observes. "In the winds, I sense a change about you. Though the Green Word is dulled from my ears, I can make out her guidance if I focus long enough. It is as if a weight has been freed from you."

"A weight that has kept me from your reach," admits Gabranth, frowning in disgrace. The correct words form over his tongue. He must speak, lest he loses those words—and Fran. "Forgive me for my outburst and for my secrecy… Your lessons are harsher than the ones I have conditioned within myself."

"Is it harsh to desire you to be open with me?"

"When the land I come from is one of legacies built atop lies, yes."

"You are not a true child of the Empire," notes Fran. "You may use this excuse to justify your own coldness, but you were not born within its embrace. You and I were born in freedom."

Gabranth feels his brother's eyes along his back. They offer a strange comfort to him now. "If you truly mean what you say," he starts, "Then I will admit now that I hold a paralyzing fear of hurting you. I haven't the same motivations that sustained me months ago before our meeting. I sit before you now as a man reborn."

Fran's curiosity suggests innocence about her. "You have forgotten how to walk?" she asks. "Or have you merely forgotten my words?"

" _You will never take my freedom from me_ ," recites Gabranth, remembering the memory in full. "And because of this…I am free to do as I please with your body."

Stillness stays between them. Though it should be one of understanding, Gabranth cannot know for certain what permissions she has given to him. This time, Fran does not berate him for his hesitation. She stands and goes to his side, partially shielding the fire from his view with her figure. Here she leans down, holding Gabranth's firm jaw in her light touch. Supple sensitivity of her lips Gabranth feels against that firmness, pressing her soft speech in silence along his skin, relaxing. Here he feels his justification for allowing her this deeply within him, for setting his pride aside in favor of her inimitable fondness.

"Good night, Noah," speaks Fran, moving away. She ghosts her hand down over his neck and armored shoulder before leaving him, returning to her tent. With Basch, Ashe and Larsa all watching him, Gabranth waits. He waits for them to return to sleep. He waits for the opportunity he has been given; he waits until he has deciphered it clearly before acting.


	4. Scores of Sodomy

Once the moon is at its zenith in the sky, and the bonfire has died to the desert's parched winds, Gabranth rises to his feet. His armored boots billow sand in his wake no matter how much care he takes to walk quietly to the tent that Fran and Balthier share together. If Balthier managed to sleep through Basch's earlier outburst, Gabranth has no cause to worry that the man will notice this intrusion. This cannot wait. Gabranth requires answers as to why his heart beats this strongly for Fran, and she is more than able enough to give him what he needs.

He leans down in order to fit himself through the fabric of the tent's opening. Amid a dim candlelight scented of pine, he sees Balthier, shirtless, sleeping away on a cot on the other end. Closer to Gabranth is a stone large and sturdy enough for one to sit up against: there is Fran, doing so, long legs bent and arms folded as she sits atop her own cot. She has removed the filigree wear over her abdomen and arms, and the helmet from her head, wearing only the dark steel that runs in curved patterns down her thighs to her stiletto heels; the length of her thick hair she keeps down, once again covering her chest. Her eyes are closed; Gabranth notices both of her long ears twitch over his presence.

Languorous, Fran opens her eyes, regarding him. "You have decided to visit," she notes. Gabranth removes his helmet, respectfully. "Is your newfound courage related to my partner's talent to sleep through the world's end?"

"It is," replies Gabranth. He waits.

Fran studies him for a moment. She uses one finger to beckon him to her. "You are different again," she observes amid the chime of Gabranth's steel as he kneels in front of her legs. "Determined, I wonder? Or do you not have an agenda? I doubt you came only to watch me rest."

"I require conversation," he clarifies.

"At this hour?" asks Fran, brow raised.

Gabranth fears he will bore her, thus he begins: "During the times when I _wanted_ most vividly, never could I capitalize on precisely what I desired most. With the Princess, for example…I thought of claiming her, if only to follow Vayne's orders, yet I could not visualize the act with enough clarity. I could not fantasize; I could not wonder…the correct path came to me only by not thinking at all."

"And yet you thought of claiming her nonetheless," she points out. "While it is curious that you chose to act by your hidden intuition, the fact remains that you considered it. You found pleasure in the thought."

"Only because it was expected of me…"

Pensive silence surrounds her. Fran observes him again. He wonders if he has said something wrong, until she continues, "And when we met again in Nalbina, I was bound. You enjoyed the sight of it, and not on another's orders. Now that you have had time to think on it, what did you find most arousing about me in such a state?"

Gabranth allows his gaze to wander Fran's body in her partial exposure. "Simply that it was you," he speaks, remembering his tension. "There I had a beautiful woman with me, exposed for my explorations. I recall realizing that I had no true power over you. In your beauty and conviction, you held over me a mental command that arrests me still. It is more stringent at certain times."

"Such as…?"

"…such as when we met again in Bhujerba and you had me kiss the wine from your leg."

Fran's pupils have darkened, dilated. Her presence and being follow suit. She breathes deeper, slower than before. She considers something shadowed behind her demeanor, out of reach. "And during our flight to Rabanastre, in the cabin," she starts, unhurried, "When I asked what you wished for, again, you could think of nothing specific. Or, at least, that is what you claimed. From what you say, it is possible that you know not the shape of your truest wants…you will find them only when they are presented to you. You will act on them without stopping to think, such as when I give you a direct order."

"Yes… That—" Gabranth has to keep from trembling; "—that manner of submission to another, selflessly stroking their ego or performing any act so long as it would please them: I have chased after it in my service to the Empire. Of course, I was unable to place specific, sexual contentment in serving power-hungry men; though, in my efforts to suppress my wants, I ignored the possibility of such a find."

Gabranth worries when Fran keeps her silence. He moves to kneel closer to her, between the lengths of her bent legs, curious as to what so preoccupies her thoughts. This aura about her—he has not seen it since their first conversation in Bhujerba, has not felt it since that night. His traumas had no room to haunt him, to make him hesitate: such freedom from the prison of his thoughts, he knows, only Fran can provide to him. It is only in this freedom that he can let go of that night in Landis, and tell her the truth.

"Fran…I desire you as a lover. I must be with you. Not only for your sex, but for your mind, your kindness, and the many ways you challenge me to be more than what I am. Allow me to serve you, exclusively, for your pleasure. I will tell you of my sins at a later time…after you have shown me yours—"

Fran draws Gabranth toward her by the nape of his neck, open mouths into one another, inhaling this novelty. Open-mouthed and then closed by practiced pressure from Fran's command; this movement of his own flesh by another's exalts his resistance to all before her. Heat overtakes him, mounting by the chill of her nails along his scalp. Steel separates Gabranth from Fran's skin, yet she pulls at his body, into hers, as if dissipating the barriers with her zeal alone. Her sounds echo through him, driving him to open his body to her: he can fathom nothing less than giving Fran whatever she requires.

She softens, whispering in bursts through his taste, "Noah…you have broken me—" By his shoulders, Fran pushes him just far enough away. They collect their breaths; Gabranth trembles at last, forcing himself to wait for her wishes. "You know not the full extent of _my_ sins…how can you ask me to exact them upon you?"

"I do not ask," assures Gabranth, breathless still, "Rather, I beg of you for even a glimpse…" Fran growls at his proposal, at his behavior; he assumes this is good, this is progress, for he hears her arousal deep in her throat; he smells it that much more between her. "My lady, please…I must know."

Fran sneers at him. "I would only chase you from me," she promises. "Freshly mine, and freshly gone, you would be, if you knew. In my experience, men do not take kindly to my truest wants."

Gabranth lowers himself to a bow, as much as he is able. Her handprint along the nape of his neck burns in this exposure. Here he smells Fran's desires with the same intensity, but he'll not act without her permission. "Then tell me—who has taken kindly to them?" he asks, voice muffled against the cotton of the cot beneath them.

"Women," replies Fran, simply.

Never will Gabranth understand how his arousal has increased tenfold with but one word from her.

"How do you suppose we Viera are able to procreate amongst ourselves?" asks Fran, glossing her nails along Gabranth's scalp, his neck. "To the rest of Ivalice, we are a race of only women. There are no men who make up our numbers. At least, not by a Hume's standards…" Gabranth's eyes are wide and watery in this darkness he has forced himself to breathe. Here is the path to his liberation, to knowing Fran fully; he listens with the utmost intensity. "Can you speculate as to what it is I mean?"

Hoarse, Gabranth replies, "No…no, I know not…what you mean. Perhaps you might— _show me_."

Amusement sounds from Fran's lips. "With Balthier asleep but paces away?" she asks, teasing.

"He'll not wake," says Gabranth, stern. "You assured me—all of us—that he would not. He is invisible to me at this time. Finding the meaning in your words is all that matters to me now."

Outside, the winds blow harder, disturbing the fabric of the tent—just enough to distract Gabranth, to make him look around, ascertaining that their shelter has not flown away. During the diversion, Fran rakes her nails over Gabranth's skull, forcing his head between her, against her, to devour. No choice but to follow—Gabranth's will has been taken from him, and he does not desire its return, not amid this novelty of Fran's pleasure. She has made him bleed into his hair; in her vigor, Fran denies him the air he is used to breathing; these pains drive him to swallow her, to breathe her instead, at last having Fran's sex in his mouth, learning the crispness of her taste and the folded lengths of her texture. At the source of her thick seeping, Gabranth licks hardest, forced here by her positioning and guidance. Louder she sounds at his compliance; breathless she becomes with his tongue's shallow insertion; her hips and breaths quaver at his own sounds against her, vibrating here.

Fran gyrates against his lapping tongue, adding pressure, riding his servitude to her. She hisses her inhalations, moans her exhales; Gabranth cannot stand this aching build between him at her reactions to him. He suffers the ache for her, to prove himself loyal to her satisfaction. His mouth has filled of her. Sweat and saliva both slither down the corners of Gabranth's mouth, as she does; he must drink loudly to not waste her; here, hardest, Fran shakes with her resistance, shutting her eyes, clipping her screams.

Her resistance fails her. Gabranth sees his answers before him, at this growth between her. Fran pushes him away by his shoulders, enough to watch. Limpness shifts into rigidity; Gabranth never imagined he would enjoy this on another; certainly not this closely, and not as a reaction to him. He watches, captivated, his chest burning with want. He ought to fear this mirror of his own sex here, on a woman, not as long as or thick as his; Gabranth is wholly enraptured by her secret, too far-removed from the outside world to care for how he _should_ react. His ache increases when Fran pulls him closer, keeping the side of his soaked face against her.

"You were honest with me," admits Fran, leaning back to catch her breath. "I sensed on our first meeting…you are fluid enough…this does not disturb you." She wraps her hand around her length, stroking languidly, brushing along Gabranth's face; the other whispers along his hair, thinking in touch. "You are certain…you want me, still?"

Gabranth breathes in the scent of this skin, similar to her taste. "You've not deterred me," he responds. "I want you more than ever before. You trust me…I'll not betray you by fleeing. I will do as you please."

"Come here…"

Fran brings him higher, tonguing away her taste from his face and lips. Closer she holds Gabranth, guiding his hips against her. He bends his knee underneath Fran's thigh, his other leg stretched behind him. This proximity stimulates Fran, her hardness against his steel; she grinds against this symbol of his previous submission to the Empire, tainting it, erasing it, and writing over it with slight drippings of her need. His tongue, and his reactions to her, Fran suckles, pressing her breasts against his plate. She overwhelms him in the certainty of her wants, how she pulses against him; she finds Gabranth's modesty, moving her lips to his jaw, dipping down to his neck beneath his silks, and up to his ear to speak gently:

"Promise with your silence that you'll not question me."

Gabranth quiets his pleasure for this promise. Fran is satisfied in seconds. She pushes him back down. Just next to her, Fran keeps his head for him to ponder without thinking: to _want_ before all else. He curls his armored hands and wrists beneath her wet, steeled thighs, holding onto her in his growing anticipation.

"Tell me, Noah—" Fran's voice is as firm as she, commanding; "That you want to suck me, risk choking over me…that you enjoy how I have rendered your sexuality suspect, and that you desire me in whichever part of you of my choosing. Add whatever else you wish. I need to hear you say the words."

For emphasis, Gabranth meets her regard of him. He remembers his place; he does not challenge her glare. "I want to suck you, Fran—choke on you." Harder she digs her nails into his scalp, resisting. "I enjoy how you have discarded my sexuality by making me your whore." Rasping breaths Fran lets out, heaving. She groans, moving Gabranth's lips to the height of her, waiting. "I desire you wherever you wish to be. So long as it is your inclination, to satisfy you, I shall bend to your whim."

He is not fully certain or convinced of the words he speaks, yet Gabranth does not think to turn back. Pleasing Fran is his sole wish. When she presses his head down, he follows, wrapping his lips around her, fitting her over his tongue, and higher in his mouth; finding an absurd amount of delight in this forcing.

But halfway he has Fran in his mouth, nearing his throat, and already he must stop himself from panicking over the loss of air. His jaws ache, what little air available to him gathers in his throat, mixing with saliva, and bursting from his mouth in coughs. Fran groans in her disapproval, lifting Gabranth's head for but a few seconds for him to breathe; just as quickly, she thrusts inside of his mouth, holding him still, fucking his panicked attempts to breathe through this humiliation. He finds his aching most prominent now that he feels as nothing but a tool for Fran's release—objectified. Sicker still, his arousals increase all the more with the realization that here Fran fucks his mouth as he wears his cape and armor, his only remaining symbol of his allegiance to the Empire. She has warped and twisted that allegiance, shaming his previous service.

This tainting widens the girth of Gabranth's throat. Fran deepens her mindless plunges, soaking his choked cries with this building. Memories accost him of the time when he felt most tainted by that _sight_ in Landis. Gabranth shuts his eyes, acting without thought to rid himself of that interruption. He takes all of Fran down his throat, perforating, stretching cartilage and tissue to fit her. At last Fran lets go of him, blinded by his suddenness. Shock overtakes her; Fran trembles to control herself. Gabranth holds his breath, holding all of her, sucking, shutting his eyes to drown out this white-hot pain. He must forget; he must focus on her; he feels she is close; she sounds it, so beautiful.

Fran digs her heels into his cape, into the armor along his back. "Noah— _enough_!" She pants and pants, struggling to remove Gabranth from her when he does not comply. "I said _stop_!"

Finally, she pulls him away. Gabranth stays lowered before her, fighting back coughs, heaving instead; mouth dripping of her mixed with him, with hues of red. Fran finds her breath and her control, watching him. What air Gabranth breathes only scratches and scythes at him, coupled with the merciless heat of the desert night. Nausea taunts the back of his throat after such a violation of his reflexes. He knows he cannot speak. He is too ashamed to say a word.

"Remove your armor, and your clothes underneath," speaks Fran, standing up. "I must retrieve something. You are to keep your back to me while I do this."

Gabranth complies; he moves at a steady pace so as to not further upset his stomach. His breastplate and all, he settles atop his folded cape in an effort to keep them free from any sand. Sweat and seed have soaked his undergarments; he wonders if Fran will enjoy watching him put them back on once she has finished with him. Once the warmth of the tent washes over his body, he stays still, kneeling with his partial hardness, waiting for her to return to him. He smells them both in the air, wondering if this will linger until dawn for Balthier to smell the evidence of their activities. Basch will also notice his absence; perhaps also the smugness Fran may decide to wear during their journey—quietly.

When Fran returns, she kneels behind him. Around Gabranth's neck, she fastens a belt of fine, worn leather. It is loose enough for him to breathe, yet tight enough for her to command with. She presses her fingertips against his shoulder blades, having him bend over to lay face-down.

"Bend," she orders, touching his leg closest to Balthier. Gabranth does so, facing him; Balthier is still very much asleep. "You will look at him until I tell you to stop." Fran scratches her nails down Gabranth's muscled back, admiring his build. His lingering disgrace, and being forcibly required to look at another man, dulls him from reacting fully. She senses this; Fran is wicked enough to sound her enjoyment. "You are troubled. You do not find him attractive?"

"I am not attracted to men," declares Gabranth, though he knows Fran only means to test him.

Fran makes an effort to sound disappointed. "You were quite eager for me to fuck your throat," she reminds him, tugging slightly on Gabranth's makeshift leash. "After what you gave me, I thought you would enjoy the sight of him. There he lies defenseless, a slave to his deep slumber. He would be none the wiser if you _acted_. Do you wonder if his length rivals yours?"

Gabranth refuses to beg her not to go any further with this. He fears that would only goad her all the more. Nonetheless, this suggestion about her thickens Gabranth at the base, and from there his throbbing grows. Fran gropes his ass, his thighs, listening through his stubborn silence; watching his erection twitch underneath him, visible enough to her at this angle. A moment she takes to lay against him, kissing the sculpt of Gabranth's shoulders. Fran gives no warning save for the brief sharpness of her nails when she finds his opening; she thrusts through, swift and uncaring; he screams his loss against the fabric beneath him. Pain inexplicable seizes Gabranth at the source down to his knees. He cannot breathe for this pressure, cannot think to expand himself with Fran expending inside of him, harsh and careless enough to make him bleed. Her free hand, Fran curls beneath him, gripping his shoulder as she shames him thrice over; the other she keeps along his leather leash, pulling enough to force his eyes to stay on Balthier.

Whatever the man's talents for deep sleep, Gabranth cannot coexist with this paranoia that Balthier will wake and see him like this. Balthier would tease and taunt, insisting that Gabranth is hard for him, another man, while underneath another that could be mistaken as male solely because of her sex. Fran would not care to defend him or to correct the argument; she would only fuck, getting off to Gabranth's humiliation, as she does now, pulsing and thickening inside of him. How Gabranth wishes he would go limp at these thoughts, yet his flesh betrays him. His tension increases as Fran fucks him, as she sweats over him, claiming him as his thoughts wander to where they should not go.

"Stroke yourself, Noah," speaks Fran, taxed by her movements against him. "I need your release…"

Gabranth obeys, unable to rid the image of Balthier discovering him in this state. Suddenly, the belt along his neck feels as a noose. He feels rope instead of leather. The heat of the desert becomes a blazing fire, destroying his homeland. Fran is the situation he cannot escape: the truth that he has no control, that he is a slave to circumstance; that he is weak, and he cannot go on believing otherwise; that he enjoys what he should not; he strokes himself, at Fran's mercy, moaning in his powerlessness.

His teeth tears at the cot beneath him, soaked of Fran. Here he shouts anew, coming violently, roping, quavering, relieving his tension. Weightlessness overtakes him. Thoughtlessness embraces him as Fran does, continuously. Gabranth is nothing, nothing but an object for Fran to fuck again and again as she pleases. In this nihility, his troubles can no longer reach him. His only substance is what he feels of Fran each time she finishes inside of him, filling him more and more. Each time he comes, Fran makes him suck his seed clean from her bedding. When she stops to breathe, he cannot help the slight shift of his waist as he waits, lifting slightly, as if to entice Fran with his openness to her. He drips of her, lubricated during these pauses, prepared and waiting for her to enter him again.

Gabranth loses count of how many times Fran fills him before she decides to sleep. Her appendage absents itself from her in this state of rest. He stays in place as she ordered, letting her hold him from behind. When he rests with her, he feels as though he has only closed his eyes for but a second before he hears Balthier stirring amid the morning temperature.

Balthier yawns loudly, sitting up, stretching. "Well, good morning to you!" he calls to them both. Fran turns away, unmoved to wake. Gabranth flushes when Balthier smirks at his exposure. "I _thought_ I heard a good romp going on some hours before. Certainly explains the dreams I had. So, then, go on—how was she? Good enough to surpass your green expectations?"

"Balthier," growls Fran, not at all pleased, "Can this not wait until later? If you could not assume, I've not slept."

"Ohh, all right, all right," concedes Balthier. "I fully understand—you require your beauty rest. But with all the ruckus you made, couldn't you simply spread a bit of that over _your_ face for a change to mask your signs of weariness? Is that not rumored to be a type of home remedy or some such?" Fran does not respond. She is dangerously quiet. Balthier fights back a chill. "Right…you're in no mood for jokes. Very well, then, no matter! I shall take my company elsewhere."

Balthier locates a shirt to put on, and exits the tent on that note. Fran does not relax, not until Gabranth turns over to hold her. This contemplative silence Gabranth maintains is comfort enough for her to fall asleep. He stays awake as she rests on, trying to find his grasp on the events from the night before.

* * *

For the six weeks it takes their group to reach King Raithwall's Tomb, Gabranth visits Fran each night that her mood allows. For a number of these days, Gabranth cannot walk at Fran's side with any normalcy the following day. Balthier makes a point, always, to make light of the matter; both Ashe and Basch have been left little room to guess incorrectly as to the circumstances surrounding his banter. Larsa remains none the wiser, finding Balthier's suggestiveness to be quite over his head. Fran mostly keeps her silence during the day, fully indulging in her expression at night with Gabranth once they resume their semblance of privacy with one another. Rarely do they escape the tent they share with Balthier; the desert offers nowhere for them to enjoy one another free of sand and scorching heat.

On their final night of rest before reaching their destination, Balthier resumes his weekly ritual of trimming Basch and Gabranth's hair. Gabranth sits at the fire as he waits for his turn, watching his brother speak with Balthier some paces away. Balthier smirks and smiles with Basch as they converse, working carefully to shave as to his customer's liking. On purpose or otherwise, Balthier allows his hand to linger along Basch's shoulder or neck as he works. He knows that Gabranth is watching him.

Fran emerges from their tent, moving to sit next to Gabranth as he continues his observations. She does not lean on him as she usually would. She stares at his staring, thinking.

When Balthier has finished with Basch, he beckons with his hand for Gabranth to join him. "Your Honor," he addresses, gesturing for Gabranth to sit on the boulder in front of him. Basch says nothing to his brother, only thanking Balthier before taking his leave. "You were kind enough to remove your helmet this time. I still recall your initial resistance to my magicks with the knife. It's good to know that that's all behind us."

Gabranth remains military still, leering at Balthier as he begins trimming his faint beard. Balthier hums a merry tune, unbothered. This uneasiness cannot go on. "Lord Ffamran—"

"Goodness, no!" says Balthier, wincing. "How many times must I tell you _not_ to call me by that name? To you, to Fran, and to everyone, including my senile father, the name's _Balthier._ You would do well to remember that."

"Balthier," amends Gabranth, bitter in his tone. Balthier raises his brow in interest, focused on his task. "If you mean to play mind games with me, I advise you now to cease your efforts. They are not appreciated."

"By whom?" asks Balthier, without the decency even to display ignorance.

"By me."

Balthier scoffs. "Oh, you and your _authority_ ," he scolds. "This isn't Archades, you know. You can't go about forcing your sentences on others, or threatening to execute us if we fail to accommodate your wishes. If that was the case, I should send you to the guillotine myself for not bothering to dig deeper into Fran's varied past before letting her bed you."

"She has chosen to remain silent on the matter."

"For good reason," supplies Balthier. "I'm sure she mentioned how her prior lovers were mostly women. Considering her heritage, I wasn't at all surprised when I learned this. Hell, I even asked if I could watch at some point. I did, and it was quite nice if I must say, but with them, it always felt like something was amiss…"

Gabranth has not forgotten the subject of the mind games. "Explain," he says instead.

Balthier rinses the bits of hair from his knife, pondering. "They weren't particularly _fluid_ , those women," he begins, familiar in his choice of words. "Some Hume, some Viera who had also left the Wood; all of them wanted only to be dominated, and that was the extent of it. Safe to say it bored her each time."

"And you say this, knowing the extent of my relations with her."

"That I do," replies Balthier with a smile. "Not to say that you bore her—no, no, it's quite the opposite. You haven't much to worry about, unless you believe you've reached any sort of sexual pinnacle with her. The moment you think she's challenged you enough, Fran will find another way to push you. There's no end to it with her. I do hope you've enough space to expand that closed mind of yours."

They say nothing more. Once Balthier has restored Gabranth's clean-cut appearance, he settles his hand along Gabranth's face, smoothing to touch the difference for himself. He only grins at Gabranth's lack of reaction before returning his tools to their tent. Fran follows after him. Gabranth nurses a terrible feeling of foreboding in his stomach, waiting for it to leave him. By the time he can no longer feel it, he senses that the others have fallen asleep. Thus he rises and goes to Fran, determined to face this.

* * *

Gabranth kneels upon Fran's cot, exposed once more amid the candlelight of their tent. His senses have grown used to the scent of pine from the candle, though he can never forget when he first smelled it. Balthier remains asleep close by, oblivious to this game and Gabranth's recurring shame. Fran has foregone the belt around his neck in favor of cuffing his wrists behind his back. Never has she done this before. He wonders, he knows: she will force upon him a situation that he will not want. There is always this risk, and yet he returns to her each time, knowing that she will humiliate him somehow, knowing that he will find pleasure in the debasement as it lasts, only to despise himself the next morning when he cannot walk properly with their comrades; when he remembers what he suffered at her hand, for her pleasure, and inevitably curses himself for being unable to resist her allure.

This cycle will not end, cannot end. Gabranth would rather suffer under her command by being her object to use than to be without her. Fran keeps her affections for him mostly silent, and she refuses to allow him inside of her; thus Gabranth knows he has not yet proven his full loyalty to her. This is what she requires, continually, and he has set himself to the task of providing it to her, no matter his fears of what she has yet to put him through.

Fran circles around him, ever wont to only remain in her heels and the armor that shields her legs. It is clear by her energy that she has made up her mind long ago as to what she wishes for him to do for her. She steps away to retrieve something. Gabranth hears the sounds of liquid pouring into a large, wooden bowl. Soon after, Fran sets the bowl down in front of him.

"Drink," she says, lounging over her cot. Gabranth's stomach chills and knots in his embarrassment; he lowers his head, lapping as a hound would. He coughs at the unexpected taste. "It is only whiskey. I wish for you to finish all of it before we continue. You have been in a state these few days. This should relax you."

Gabranth heeds her wishes. He knows what this will cause to him. The whiskey is strong. He is not one to drink often, thus his tolerance levels are low. Already he feels that foreign lightness in his head, rising from his tongue and throat. His thoughts will betray him, somehow. The alcohol's potency wrests away his composure. He is halfway finished with the bowl, and does not stop to breathe; warmer his face becomes, flushed by Fran's observations. Her breathing has slowed in the way that gives away her fascination. His abject submission to Fran brings her pleasure; he is no longer himself, only what she wishes for him to be; he has no need to worry anymore; Gabranth finishes the last dregs.

Fran sets the bowl aside, though it looks as though she has lifted it in the air. There it floats of its own accord, spinning, mocking him. "Noah," she speaks, smoothing her hands over his chest. Gabranth groans over her touch, how she has pushed him into oblivion by not pushing him at all. "Something has consumed your thoughts. You worry over it. I do not enjoy your secrecy. Will you not tell me?"

Incomprehensible grumbling is all Gabranth can offer her. He looks over at Balthier, _sleeping_. How dare he sleep and miss this humiliation. Balthier should want to watch and engage in it, as close as he is to Fran, how privy he is to her deepest wants. The true nature of their relationship…

"Have the two of you fucked?" asks Gabranth, lethargic.

Fran smiles. "I beg your pardon?"

Gabranth speaks slower, to make certain she understands this time, "Has…he…had…you? Has Ffamran…been inside…? Inside of you, Fran…as you know…I wish to be in you… Or you inside of—of him? Have you had Lord Ffamran _bent with your pleasure_ at all, ever?"

"No, on both accounts," responds Fran. Gabranth lowers his reeling head, pleased with this answer. He is quite the practiced interrogator. "Did I not explain to you already? The nature of our relationship, his and mine, is strictly professional. You ought not to have cause to fret over what he is to me. So tell me why you do."

"Because the man _desires_ my brother," laments Gabranth. Fran frowns in pretend concern. She is so beautiful, most especially when she cares; he cannot lie to her. "Basch is not—not me, but, my lady, he is my twin, thus I do worry. Each time Balthier cuts his c—his hair, he touches my brother, and Basch is a fool, laughing and smiling with him, as if it all makes him hard. And tonight, Ffam—Balthier touched my face. He touched me!"

"Oh, dear," worries Fran, not worried at all. "That does sound terrible indeed. You must be frightened of the thought of another man's affections."

"No, Fran, I am not!" argues Gabranth, his passion on the subject increasing with his lack of balance. "It frightens me that you might—might _force him_ upon me, as you please, for you know—you _know_ I will hate it, and you will do it regardless, because you are you and I am but a foolish boy for you to fill and use, that you might humiliate me as your spend falls from my wake for my brother to laugh at—"

Fran crushes her lips over his drunken babbling, ceasing his words. She straddles his thighs enough to settle her soaking clit against him, lubricating, but nothing more. He is angry that she has rudely interrupted him with her sex appeal. Gabranth cannot think to speak anymore, not with her against him, breathing in her feminine ways, fully irresistible as she always is. Fran holds him to keep him kneeling upright. He is late to register her hand stroking his want.

Again, Gabranth sees Balthier there. He will not be blindsided by Fran's planning. He will anticipate this and find it in him to enjoy another man. She will not humiliate him tonight.

Fran lowers her mouth around Gabranth's ache, sucking him whole. This suddenness has Gabranth cry out. Her long, long nails, Fran keeps just between him, tantalizing his sensitivities. Bursts of another high find him through his intoxication. He struggles against these handcuffs, desiring to rake his hands through her hair to guide her head over him. At the first wet sounds from her mouth, she is entirely Fran to him, whimpering with means to strike at his masculinity; how she does, again and again, and yet he thinks of Balthier in her place. Gabranth is convinced he is anticipating his inevitable debasement: another man's hand around him, Balthier's hand working deftly and in tandem with his mouth, sucking, blowing, throat opening; Fran is doing this, not another, not _him_ ; Gabranth works to remember where and when he is, that much harder when Fran looks up at him with uncharacteristic innocence meant to strike at this confusion.

He cannot stop himself from visualizing Balthier here, _with_ Fran, both of them taking turns before they fuck him. Fran will enjoy his enjoyment all the more, for Gabranth has claimed he is not attracted to this, _will never_ be attracted to this. Balthier will disturb Gabranth's sexuality with his practiced blowing; will make Gabranth want the firmness of his lips and hands around him instead of Fran's softer touch. The two of them are so close. They are the same person. They stimulate him the same. There is no difference, none.

All blood rushes between him; his ache explodes as ejaculate in Fran's mouth, more than enough for her to swallow. Gabranth nearly falls over at the sounds and sight of Fran basking in his release. He is sickened. She knows what she made him think about. He must find a way to rid himself of these forces within him, making him lose. He stands, disoriented, and goes outside, forgetting to cover himself. It is of no consequence, for no one is awake at this hour. Fran follows him, snapping something in her hands. He is hardly aware of her behind him; he smells spring water. Gabranth goes there, but not immediately to the water. He goes to the rock formation at the base of the nearby mountain, struggling not to topple or trip over his bare feet. He pisses into the sand at the base of the rocks, wishing to forget. He knows he cannot. He will not cry over his shame.

Fran leans against his back as he finishes. "It seems your troubles have only grown," she observes, wrapping her arms about his waist. "Come. You will be sober again after this. You are in need of it."

She has him walk backward in the direction of the spring water. Gabranth's hands remained cuffed behind his back. He has no balance beyond what Fran allows him. When they reach the wide body of water, Fran has him bend over the clear surface, kneeling atop the spring's cold, stone shore. He waits in precarious balance, his face near enough to the water to smell its purity, free of sand.

Gabranth shouts in pain at the sudden crack of leather against his ass. Fran has brought her belt, and whips him with it repeatedly. She knows he has cause to be punished; by the strength of her blows, Fran has sensed his every thought. He cannot think through this pain to make certain if Fran is truly displeased, or if she means only to take advantage of his confusion. The water grows nearer; he will drown if he falls in.

Too hard, too tightly, Fran grips his skull in place, speaking in his ear. "Why ask for my exclusivity when you think of another with such ease?" she asks, full of spite. "I should let him claim you, if that is your wish. Will you scream his name as you do mine when he makes you come?"

Gabranth has no room to answer—Fran has shoved his head neck-deep in the water. He has no means to push her away or to rise to the surface. In vain, he tries to hold his breath, yet his panic has allowed water through his mouth and nose already. Fran pulls his head back for him to breathe for but a second before pushing him down again, lower than before. Sometimes she lets go of him to use the belt, and Gabranth knows he is to keep his head underwater as he suffers the added pain. Again and again she does this, causing spasms in his body as he fights for control, water filling his passageways. Only once his neck fully tilts forward, his head shoulder-deep in the water, does Gabranth realize he will never have control over this, over anything. Not with Fran.

He stops resisting. Fran senses this, and removes him from the water. She has him sit along the shore, watching him cough and find his breath. "No," says Gabranth at last.

"No _what_?" asks Fran, stroking her belt.

"I'll not scream his name if— _when_ he makes me come."

Fran holds back her arousal, yet it is there nonetheless. "You are convinced I would do this?"

Gabranth's lashes are heavy with water. He must leer to regard her. "I am convinced you have considered it," he replies. "…I thought of him tonight only in anticipation of your sadism. As I vowed to you, I will do all I can to serve your needs…regardless of how you may humiliate me. I will suffer it gladly, to please you…"

"Is this an effort to forget your own troubles?" asks Fran, perceptive as ever.

He will not lie to her. "Yes…but it is because you force me to be thoughtless. I must be, in order to move on from it all. When I have let go of those terrors…I shall tell you their form."

Fran has nothing more to say. She understands his intentions. Gabranth has made it clear that he will do anything necessary to prove his loyalty to her. He will not forget his values, nor can he set them aside for any reason. Yet he is here, and willing to do anything for her—anything to show Fran that she is not wrong to want the things she does. This is not wrong, because his efforts to nurture her nature feel more than right, whatever the consequences. Even if those consequences end in his breaking, and in the dissection of his character for her perusal, it is too late for him to turn back.


	5. Bloodlust

Months of travel through the harsh heat of the Sandseas has led Gabranth and his allies at last to King Raithwall's Tomb. Therein the Lady Ashe hopes to find the Dawn Shard in order to reclaim her rightful place on Dalmasca's throne. As they enter the dank depths of the Tomb, scenting the death amid centuries-old stone and fiendish skeletons, Gabranth notices a change about Fran. She is subdued here: an unusual sight as they slay the enemies in their path and solve the labyrinths to the Tomb's depths. The path to their destination is obfuscated by a light fog, that of Mist. Gabranth is wary of the sight, well-aware that Viera are sensitive to the Mist's effects.

Though he knows Fran is more than able to control herself, Gabranth worries nonetheless. He observes her, rarely allowing his attention to stray from her. Fran notices his care, yet she chooses not to comment on it. Gabranth considers the possibility that she masks her hurt feelings from the night before; his thoughts' wanderings. She has spared him few glances since waking that morning, though she did not neglect to hold him through their rest. Gabranth has learned his lesson. He will not avoid the subject, and vows to discuss her concerns when they next have their privacy.

After all he has experienced with Fran, and all the horizons she has shown him by simply allowing him to be open with her, Gabranth cannot imagine anything less than her understanding with these things. She will have her reactions, her moods, yet beyond that, her feelings for him will remain. Amid the endless confusion with the matter of his true servitude to the Empire or Dalmasca, here is Gabranth's sole certainty: Fran's presence at his side. He remains unsure as to where this certainty will lead, yet most eager to see it through.

When they arrive to the Tomb's lowest level, they find one source of the abundant Mist. They encounter and defeat the fire Esper, Belias, guardian of the Dawn Shard. By Ashe's will, the Esper attunes with Balthier, giving him sole command over the entity.

"Why offer it to me?" asks Balthier. "Shouldn't you keep it? I believe you mentioned your Dynast-King ancestor once wielded this— _being_. It would be far more appropriate for you to have it."

Ashe continues down the hallway thickened by Mist. "The Esper is your reward," she clarifies. "It is the legendary, invaluable treasure I promised to you before. You should be honored, and quite blessed that it has chosen you as its master. Not everyone can claim such a feat."

Balthier scowls. "When you said _treasure_ , I assumed—"

"—something of monetary value?" asks Ashe, airy in her unconcern.

"Well, yes," he replies, bitter. "The only bits of monetary value we've found here are all the skeletons some madman would love to dissect for research. Nearly three months Fran and I've spent aiding you through this hellish desert, all for some folk tale?"

"Come now, Balthier. While you may find cause to complain, I am certain Fran is more than content with _her_ reward. Is that not worth anything to you?"

"I count worth with coin, and her _reward_ relayed to me his desire not to be sold on the market."

"His desire?" asks Larsa, intrigued. "Do you mean to say that her compensation as our mercenary is an actual person? How can that be? Have I missed something?"

Basch clears his throat. "Mayhap we ought to direct our attentions to what awaits before us," he suggests. Gabranth has done already so, unbothered by the previous conversation. He observes the condensation leading to the pedestal beyond. "The Mist's primary source must be through here. No doubt it is indeed the Dawn Shard."

Ashe appears distracted as she continues forth. Larsa worries, asking as to her well-being. She remembers herself at his behest, attempting to deflect his concerns. In her moment of distraction, Gabranth notices a change about her; it is more pronounced, now, as she ascends the steps to claim the nethicite. Fran, too, narrows her eyes in suspicion, watching Ashe carefully. Gabranth cannot pinpoint precisely how the air about Ashe has changed, thus he tucks the information away for a later time.

Once Ashe has secured the Dawn Shard in her possession, they all use the teleportation device to return to the Tomb's upper level. Larsa laments that they must suffer three more months of travel to Rabanastre before beginning Ashe's succession. As they reach the final waypoint that leads outside, Fran stops, her long ears twitching. Gabranth pauses, first, as do the others.

"Fran?" asks Balthier, stepping toward her. "What is it? Do you hear something?"

"I first heard it moments after we entered," responds Fran, unsettled. "I believed it was simply the Mist aiming to trick me. I was mistaken. This is the sound of machinery, of airships."

"Airships? They would have to be advanced— _beyond_ advanced to fly through this region…"

Gabranth stops Larsa before he uses the waypoint. "My lord, you must wait," he urges. Larsa looks up at him in concern. "The airships can only be from Archades. The Eighth Fleet in particular patrols regularly from east to west from Bhujerba through the Ordalia Continent. It is entirely possible that their patrol has been tasked with searching for any signs of the Lady Ashe."

"This is the first time I have heard their engines," assures Fran. "Their altitude is high enough such that they mean only to secure the area. I am not convinced they are certain of our presence here. Yet they lie in wait nonetheless. I fear they will land, and find us, if we stay here."

"If they do," worries Larsa, "They will know Judge Gabranth and I have sided against my brother. As of now, they can only speculate. If they had solid proof, I've no doubt Vayne would seek to retaliate—not only against the Princess, but against all of Ivalice. His ruthlessness is unmatched."

Months of dalliance have dulled Gabranth to the possibility of having to face the Empire as the man he is now. Not once did he consider leaving Fran; betraying her freedom or her life for the sake of maintaining his appearances. Here stands an opportunity to prove his loyalty to the Empire and escape incurring Vayne's wrath. Fran regards him now with quiet doubt, unable to ask if he will choose Archades over her.

The answer is obvious. There is no need for Gabranth to voice it. Balthier looks between the pair, humming in contemplation.

"So we must act," guesses Basch, "Lest we allow them to overwhelm us. No matter the situation, we hold certain advantages. Let us plan, and utilize these to the fullest."

Fran dismisses the idea with her warning, "We haven't time. They make to descend as we speak…"

Ashe offers her suggestion: "The three of you must go," she says, to Fran, Basch and Balthier. "We know that the Empire is aware of your camaraderie. It will make sense that they should find you together. If they ask, you came here searching for me. They cannot know of Lord Larsa and Judge Gabranth. We shall hide within the Tomb's depths."

"All right, and then what?" asks Balthier. "We sacrifice ourselves by lying as to your whereabouts?"

"It is all we can do," agrees Basch. "I would gladly sacrifice myself so that the Princess might live to reclaim her throne. She and Larsa remain as Ivalice's only options for peace. If we must give our lives to see to that end, then so be it."

Balthier scoffs. "You're not one for _variety_ , now are you, Captain?" he asks. Basch stares at him, too serious to engage in his jest. With a weary sigh, Balthier adds: "Yes, yes, fine. We shall find some way to escape death yet again if we must do this. I, too, hold some advantages that we might use. I'll not keel over and die all to protect some notion of peace. There's no pay in that."

Basch and Balthier do not take the time to say their goodbyes. They fully expect to be reunited with their allies once more. This is but another task they must complete before the end of their journey. Fran stays in place, her back to the waypoint. She stares back at Gabranth, unable to speak. Gabranth can find no words to offer to her, to Balthier, or to Basch.

Gabranth refuses to accept this imagery, this imminent end to their relationship. He ignores this fool's plan that their comrades have concocted. He steps forward, visualizing himself dying at Fran's side as a traitor to the Empire.

"Fran…" he begins. Gabranth has her attention; they have no time. He loiters under her gaze, concerns festering. "I…cannot allow this. I'll not let you simply walk away from me. I hold no embarrassment in admitting that I would gladly die in exchange for your personal freedom—Ivalice be damned." He blocks out the reactions of others. Fran's quiet calm is enough for him. "I will accompany you—"

"Your Honor," speaks Balthier, firm. He walks toward him, pressing his forearm against Gabranth's breastplate, blocking his advance. " _Think_ before you do this, will you? You're of no use to anyone if you betray your intentions—"

"To hell with my _intentions_!" shouts Gabranth. "I will be of no use at all if you leave with her!"

"Brother, remember yourself," urges Basch. "You must protect Lord Larsa and the Lady Ashe. You would sacrifice them—?"

"For the gods' sake, man, do not waste your words when you know what my response will be!"

Ashe steps forward, humble. "If you have truly made up your mind, Your Honor," she begins, "Then I will protect Larsa—only until you return. Based on my own experiences, I believe you are more than capable to find a way out of this… The two of us shall wait here for as long as we are able."

Gabranth's rage leaves him when he guesses as to what she means. Fran's regard of him warms all the more. They have no time to speak. Already the _Dreadnought Leviathan_ makes its descent upon the sands of the Tomb's courtyard. Basch and Balthier teleport outside with Fran. After a moment, Gabranth follows, sick to his stomach when he sees the Imperial guards apprehending them. They do not think to do the same to him. They offer their salutes, respectful, having assumed he is on their side. He walks with them through the airship to where the flagship's Captain awaits, fighting not to kill the men who have handcuffed Fran; fighting not to turn and say or do anything else that will blow his cover. He reminds himself that this is only temporary. He will not think his way through this, for that will incite only anxieties and other impediments. As he has learned to do with Fran, he will allow his hidden intuition to see them back safely.

In the flagship's large observation room stands Judge Magister Ghis, his back to them as he looks out the full windows to the skies beyond. Ghis turns, removing his helmet to observe his new guests. He smirks at his colleague.

"Your Honor!" he addresses, surprised. Gabranth nods, unable to speak until he has ascertained how much Ghis knows. "It has been some time since I've seen you! There have been rumors spreading about that you left in search of Lord Larsa and the Princess. Judge Drace and Judge Zargabaath assured us all that you have made progress. And here you have located your dear brother and his comrades…"

"I have," replies Gabranth, tone neutral. "I believe the Lady Ashe has been in contact with them. It appears she has sent them on an errand to retrieve the Dawn Shard from King Raithwall's Tomb. They were successful. I thought to follow them to wherever the Princess waits in hiding."

Ghis approaches them, nodding, pleased. "Alas, I have thwarted your plans," he teases, none the wiser. "You say they have retrieved the Dawn Shard? The deifacted nethicite no doubt holds an abundance of power. I wonder if the Princess meant to _use_ the Shard against the Empire. Revenge, perhaps? Vayne would not be pleased to know that such power nearly fell into her hands."

"They have indeed retrieved the Dawn Shard," lies Gabranth.

"Then I should like to have it for myself," says Ghis, extending his gloved hand to his prisoners. Basch pales. Fran offers no reaction. Balthier winces, knowing where this will go. "Ah, Lord Ffamran! Your father and all of us in the Empire have missed you so since your untimely departure. 'Twould be a shame if Doctor Cid were to learn of your equally, untimely death at the hands of my guards. It will all be avoided if you simply hand over the nethicite."

" _Hand_ it over, you say?" asks Balthier, buying time. "I can do no such thing. My hands are tied, you see." He lifts his wrists cuffed in front of him. Ghis scowls. "It seems you'll have to remove these."

"Nonsense." Ghis spots a bulge in Balthier's pocket, and snatches his prize—the very same Gabranth noticed upon their first meeting in the Royal Palace. "Yes…this is the Dawn Shard. Already I can sense its power. I wish to measure it plainly." He hands it to one of his guards. Gabranth knows, in reality, it is merely the Goddess' Magicite from the treasury, and not the Dawn Shard. Ghis will not know; it is best that he does not. "Take it to the engine room. Have the engineers place it inside the engine in order to accurately scale its potential. The rest of you—take the prisoners to the _Shiva_. I am certain they will find adequate accommodation in the holding cells there."

"Your Honor," speaks Gabranth, not too eager, "Allow me the pleasure of escorting them myself. I should also like to remind them of how their usefulness has expired."

Ghis is pleased with Gabranth's apparent cruelty. "You do continue to live up to your reputation, Judge Gabranth," he comments, dismissing the rest of the guards. "I am most relieved that you would do this in place of me. Vayne would so hate to learn that we allowed them to live. He has sufficient concerns already, mobilizing the rest of the fleets. This war against Rozzaria will go very much in our favor for as long as Vayne feels that all loose ends have been dealt with." He laughs at the blankness about Gabranth. "Forgive me, Your Honor, you hadn't heard! All your sneaking around in the desert has kept you out of Ivalice's reach. Why, the moment Lord Vayne learned of the Princess' disappearance, he declared war on Rozzaria. He aims to deplete their resources, leaving them with nothing to offer to Dalmasca should the Princess think to return."

"How calculating of him," remarks Gabranth, unable to find much else to say.

"Indeed it is," agrees Ghis. He draws his broadsword, and hands it to Gabranth. "Now, take the prisoners and see to it that they are silenced. _Permanently_. I'll not have any of that here—I have no desire to see the carpets stained with the blood of vermin such as them." Gabranth turns the sword over in his hands, thinking Ghis a fool for turning his back to him. "Return to me once you have finished. We must discuss the matter of the nethicite. With the power of the Dawn Shard, I could very well see to the completion of my own means… Perhaps you could assist me."

"I am impatient," declares Gabranth, amusing his superior one last time. "I should like to assist you sooner than that—to repay you for all you have done."

Gabranth plunges the blade into Ghis' neck. He holds it there, prolonging the choke. When Ghis struggles to hold the steel, Gabranth lifts his leg, kicking at the man's back. It is enough force to sever upward clear through Ghis' head, spattering blood. Ghis collapses to the ground, lifeless; Gabranth drops the sword carelessly at his side. With haste, Gabranth removes the keycards and keys from Ghis' possession. He turns to his comrades, finding it difficult to assess their reactions. None of them say a word as he makes to remove their handcuffs. Balthier and Fran show no emotion. Basch worries, if only by his natural sympathy for others.

"Well," says Balthier, breaking the silence, "I can certainly say you've proven your loyalty…"

Gabranth ignores the comment, ordering, "We must leave at once." He holds Fran's arm to guide her first; Balthier and Basch jog behind. They hurry down the hall to the teleport crystal. "The _Shiva_ will house a smaller ship we can use. Once we reunite with Lord Larsa and the Princess, we will fly to Rabanastre in order to plan our next move in light of recent events. Until then, we must avoid detection."

It is only during the teleport between airships that Gabranth wonders if he made a mistake in killing Judge Ghis. Time will pass, alarms will be raised, and accusations will be made. If they are discovered, he may lose Basch and the silent truce they have found after so long; or Balthier may fall, and Fran will lament the loss and be burdened by it; or, worse still, Gabranth may lose Fran to the Empire's xenophobia, and in turn, the Empire will lose him, as will all of Ivalice. However insignificant Gabranth may be to the world, he understands his significance to Fran; she has become his world, and his subjectivity has come to mean more to him than the objective rule of Archades.

They arrive to the _Shiva_ , continuing through to another teleport crystal that will lead them to a small, unused fighter ship. Gabranth stops before they reach the first hallway doubtless filled with guards on patrol. An explosion of pure Mist in the sky interrupts his planning. Fran falters, doubling over, glowing crimson, sounding out in pain; guards pour forth before their path, startled; in her Mist-induced frenzy, Fran incapacitates them all, thoughtless, barely able to distinguish friend from foe in her rage.

Balthier will not let his worries show, instead encouraging Fran to continue on. Basch steps warily after her, his troubles growing each time Fran sends another guard flying into a wall. Gabranth waits until they reach their airship to hold her, gripping, as if his hold will force her to remember herself.

"Fran! Will you not stop?" exclaims Gabranth, struggling against her. "It is only I! Have you forgotten!?"

Balthier frets as he hurries to power the airship. "She'll not listen!" he shouts over Fran's cries. "It's the Mist! She's too sensitive to its powers! Keep her under control until we land!"

Basch approaches the pair. "Do you require assistance?" he offers, stumbling when the airship takes to the skies. Gabranth scowls at his brother from behind Fran; Basch backpedals to grab hold of one of the seats. "It is indeed the Mist. The Goddess' Magicite must have overheated the _Leviathan_. Were it the Dawn Shard, I worry to think what would become of Fran… We must be grateful."

"Grateful?!" barks Gabranth, pinning Fran against the wall to keep her from clawing him further. "How daft you must be! She has lost herself, and here you pray for our good fortune?"

"Calm yourself, will you?" advises Balthier; at his words, Fran stops her thrashing, breathing slowly. "You see? She'll be quite all right. If you panic, you'll not help her state of mind. And Basch is right, you know. Had that explosion been from the Dawn Shard, I can scarce imagine how it would have affected her…" Gabranth relaxes his hold over Fran, realizing the truth in Balthier's words. She cannot look at him. "We've nearly arrived at the Tomb. When we land, Basch and I shall go and collect the young lord and the Princess. You stay here with Fran and talk things through. It seems you need some time alone."

* * *

Gabranth stays seated in the ventilated airship, holding Fran close to his chest. They have remained in silence for long minutes. His thoughts have not ceased, again and again reminding him of what could have happened. Each corner of the compact interior he looks, he sees those possibilities; here is Fran, uncertain of what to say to him when Basch is decapitated by Ghis; here is Fran, mourning Balthier's murder, cursing Gabranth for following them and blowing their cover; here is Fran, tortured before him by Vayne's hand; here is Fran, sent to her death, finding his parents there in that oblivious oblivion; here is Fran, discussing the laws of Humes with his mother, engaging in light debate over the differences between the Viera's Green Word; here is Fran, assisting his father at the forge, both of them detailing their preferred ways with the sword; here is Fran with Basch who has found his head in death, speaking her regrets of having never told Gabranth of her love for him.

If he loses her, they will never reach that zenith with one another. Of all the individual possibilities, this is the one that chokes him most.

Ivalice holds potential too steep for their happiness to be shattered. Vayne wages war on Rozzaria. The war will reach them in Rabanastre as they wait for correspondence with Al-Cid Margrace. Again, there will come a point where Gabranth must maintain his appearances for the sake of his true allies. This will come to a conclusion he cannot avoid, one he has no control over. He risks losing Fran to life's uncertainties. He risks a repeat of his final night in Landis if this is to go on.

When he considers his fear of this face of the unknown, Gabranth sympathizes with those who seek power. He has no reason to search, not for anything.

"Your worry me with your silence," speaks Fran, having found her energy at last.

Gabranth reminds her, "You could not look at me earlier. I thought, perhaps, you needed time…"

"And you have given it to me." Fran keeps her hand along Gabranth's face, sensing. "Tell me your thoughts. I may see them here, but I desire your words all the same."

Gabranth shuts his eyes to rid himself of this sting. "You have come to mean more to me than all I had conditioned myself to honor. I know not where to stand in the world if it is not under your gaze, my lady. All the same…I know, the more I yearn for you, the harder my past will work to take you from me. Thus I am torn—torn between feeling for you, entirely, lest I open myself to harsher pains if I allow my past to succeed."

"As am I," responds Fran, unexpected. She has steeled her voice to keep Gabranth from discerning her emotions; her steel makes it all too simple for him to tell. "I did foresee this juncture. Here I lie torn as well, wishing to be more with you, though I know of your fears. I cannot claim fearlessness to my name, however much I wish I were able. You could easily change your mind."

"I killed a man! I killed him, my colleague, for your safety! What makes you think I would go back?"

"You'll not open your eyes."

At Fran's soft insistence, Gabranth opens his eyes. The sting has not left him. Blurriness overtakes his vision as he stares at the back of the seat in front of them. Fran shifts, straddling him, shielding his face with the warmth of her pulse. She holds Gabranth's heated head in her arms, giving his emotions this time to pass. She does not pose unwanted questions, forcing him to speak; to give shape to this shame that he is, above all, powerless to protect her as he is. He does not think her weak, or unable to protect herself, yet he understands that there are circumstances that may necessitate her death for the sake of crippling him.

Vayne will not hesitate should he find out.

"Noah," speaks Fran beside his ear, lifting him from his thoughts. Her intentions lift him further. "Won't you kiss me?" Drawn to the curve of her neck, and the bends of her shoulders, Gabranth tastes, lingering; breathing her. He complies in her firmer hold, listening to her words laced with her faint reactions. "If it is truly your wish to hold onto me…you have the power to do it. I believe, somewhere, you know what you must do to. When you have figured it out, tell me, and I will do all I can to help."

"It sounds as though you know already…"

Fran's tone is not one of the coyness Gabranth expects of her. "Perhaps," she supplies, eyes locked behind him. "I would be better able to sense it were I not distracted by another call."

Gabranth hasn't the room to wonder on the matter. Fran holds him closer, long nails massaging his scalp, easing away his sense to think. He does not register when their privacy has been broken by their allies' return, not until they file in, taking their seats, commenting all at once.

"Our apologies for the interruption," allows Basch.

Ashe takes the seat next to them, smiling. "It is a wonder that you can allow yourselves to be free after all that has happened," she teases.

"A world of understanding has come upon me," remarks Larsa, intrigued. "Judge Gabranth's earlier convictions are now clear. I am ashamed for not realizing it sooner!"

"Do pardon the intrusion," comments Balthier, heading to the pilot's seat. "'Tis only us, your faithful comrades in arms who mind not what it is you do with your time together. Shall our music for the six hour flight to Rabanastre be the varied sounds of your lovemaking in plain sight?"

Gabranth turns away from them. He has no desire to know whether or not they stare. Their outward acceptance is of no consequence to him; he would not behave differently if they all disapproved. Fran holds him all the same, quiet in her contemplation. He is surprised that she does not use the opportunity to promote her sadism. Her distraction feels all the more obvious by that lack.

Balthier sighs in faux disappointment. "I suppose not," he continues, taking to the skies. Gabranth tightens his hold around Fran in reaction. "Perhaps we ought to discuss the matter of our next move instead. Things have gotten a little out of hand during our retreat to the desert, wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed they have," agrees Basch. "With the Empire and Rozzaria at war with one another, it leaves us with no room to achieve our goals. Should the Princess decide now to take the throne, Dalmasca will be powerless, inevitably swept away amid the conflict. Conversely, we will run out of places to hide. We cannot stay in Rabanastre for long."

"Where else might we go?" asks Ashe. "Most areas north of Dalmasca are under Imperial control. Due south is Rozzarian territory, likely overwhelmed in the midst of Vayne's pre-emptive strike. Bhujerba to the east is _supposed_ to be neutral, and yet we have discovered otherwise… I can safely say that we have all grown weary of the desert on this western continent. That leaves us with only the wilds to call our home until we plan our course of action."

Balthier turns in his seat. "Fran?" he asks. "You're awfully quiet. More than usual, I must say. Have you anything in mind?"

Fran lounges along Gabranth's lap, allowing her a better view of their allies. "Yes, but it has been forced upon me," she warns. "The Wood calls for me. She worries. Her Word has tried to reach me these long weeks. With the news of the war, my sisters in the village desire my return. They'll not refuse you if you wish to accompany me."

"Eruyt Village?" asks Larsa. "It is most safe to say I have never been there in person. From the tales I've heard, they're not at all welcoming to Humes. And yet you say they'll not turn us away. How curious."

"We have no other options," says Ashe. "If we're to plan with any effectiveness, we need to find refuge. Balthier, let us set a course at once for the Golmore Jungle. Will this airship be able to fly through the region?"

"Yes, yes, you needn't worry," assures Balthier. "The craft is compact enough that we'll be able to find an opening through the trees to land. Though the flight will be extended beyond the previous six hour approximation. I'd say about, oh, another day-long flight? And in such small quarters…"

Gabranth fully registers Balthier's point. He prepares himself for the journey. There are no rooms large enough for more than one person on this airship. His previous conversation, and more, with Fran, will have to wait. She finds a suitable loophole in their predicament, whispering to him about the village and the Green Word, while the others remain in political debate on the current state of affairs. He responds as much as he is able, further masking his words through her hair, along her neck—wherever he can to keep his passions for her closely tucked within Fran's periphery, nowhere beyond that boundary.


	6. Edge of Reason

With care, Balthier navigates the small Imperial carrier through the skies ravaged by war. There is a plain, unseen barrier along the Ozmone Plain, between Imperial and Rozzarian territory that has been drawn during their stay in the desert. They fly through the appropriate portion of the sky, claimed in their favor, failing to draw suspicion from the fighter aircrafts jetting by. Gabranth cannot make out a thing beyond the windows, too fogged by dense Mist emanating from destroyed airships and bursts of magicks from the foot soldiers along the plains. Fran remains in his hold, seat shared in these tight spaces; she keeps his head along her shoulder, keying him to the slowed beats of her heart.

She is concerned. Uncertain. Gabranth curses his powerlessness. For as long as he is determined to stay with her, beyond the Empire's reach, he can do nothing to stop the source of her troubles.

Though they make their way to the Eruyt Village in search of refuge, they cannot hope to live out the entirety of the war in hiding. Larsa, Ashe and Basch have since ended their light discussions during the flight, too morose now for conversation. Distant sounds of gunfire and maneuvering airships hang over their silence. Creeping darkness and the growing absence of those sounds alerts Gabranth to their safe arrival to the Golmore Jungle. Balthier finds an opening to land, away from monster territory, close enough to the hidden entrance to Fran's homeland. They exit the craft in varied states of strife, unwilling to yet give a voice to their shared troubles. Far-off calls of mammalian fiends replace the warfare now hidden beyond the verdant veils; humid Mist surrounds them, not thick enough to be visible. In this quiet they share, walking through the winding jungle paths, they arrive to an unspoken understanding: that they are all powerless, despite their best efforts.

Fran directs them to the edge of the forest, along the illusion of a possible path beyond. Her claw-like nail, she uses to spell out a band of light before her, opening the way to the village.

"You're certain of this, are you?" asks Balthier in his concern. "Your _Green Word_ isn't playing tricks on you, luring you back here, only for your sisters to mock your disabled hearing? They could be taking advantage of the reality that we haven't anywhere else to go."

"You worry too much," allows Fran, leading the way along the patterned path. "I will handle this."

Gabranth means to pose questions of his own: how she feels on returning here, if her sisters will truly welcome her, and how she feels on the world at large. If they stay here, she and Balthier will have no means to return to their sky pirating. Already did they remove months from their previous plans in aiding the Lady Ashe, only to discover that they merely helped incite the Empire and Rozzaria into war. There is no freedom for sky pirates without fair skies to navigate.

He decides it is best to ask of her feelings at a later time, when they are next alone. His helm, he removes, to best take in this foreign sentiment of seeing Fran's old home. Endless platforms of wood, elevated from one another, joined by spiraling paths, with a blinding white backdrop in comparison to the darkness of the jungle and the rest of Ivalice—Gabranth feels as though they walk through the actualization of an elder tree's soul. Wisdom and comfort in material form, in aura, he sees mirrored along these paths, supplying life to the village. Viera stop their conversations with their neighbors to stare, only allowing hushed whispers once they believe Fran can no longer hear them.

Fran walks, strutting as natural in her heels, with poise, as always. Gabranth can spot no outward signs that her confidence suffers in reaction to recent events. She captivates him all the same with her looks alone. Yet he senses differently within her. She no longer has room to display only coldness toward the world's politics, deeming them irrelevant from her own goals.

Ivalice has decided for her. Naturally, she disagrees with the decision. Gabranth feels compelled to change this, everything, for her, yet he cannot think of anything within his power. He will find a way.

He is distracted from his determination when another Viera notices them. Her complexion, her features remind him of Fran—a younger version of her. This reminder runs to Fran, crying in glee. "Sister!" she exclaims, holding Fran with such resolve. "The Wood, she said you would be here, but I did not think—did not think it possible! You have truly returned!"

"I have," says Fran, subdued, returning the embrace. "I hope you have been safe from Ivalice, here in the village. You are well, Mjrn?"

"Yes, I am well," replies Mjrn, stepping away. "Though I admit…I have wanted to follow you, to learn why it is you favor your freedom from us. Jote senses this. She watches me closely, as if she can make up for losing you."

"She did not lose me. I chose to leave. I had my reasons; these, she did not respect. Given the state of things, I can no longer pretend as if I do not hear her calls. I have come here out of courtesy to her."

Mjrn looks to the others. "And for your friends, I presume?" she asks, smiling at each of them. "You would not bring them if they did not also seek asylum from the war."

Larsa offers his hand, returning the smile. "That is correct," he replies. Mjrn is warmed by the foreign custom, shaking his hand with bubbling awkwardness. "I am Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, heir to the Empire's throne. If I could have my way, there would be no war, and the Lady Ashe would return peacefully to her place as Queen of Dalmasca, with Captain Basch as her guard."

Basch bows to Fran's younger sister. "This is true. We desire nothing less than cooperation between Ivalice's nations. Humes we may be, though we do not seek to harm the tranquility here in your village. We come in peace."

Ashe steps forward. "If you would be so kind as to offer us a place to stay," she speaks, "We would be most grateful to you. It is my goal to stop the senseless fighting beyond these walls, though I cannot act blindly. We are in need of time to plan our next move appropriately…"

"I understand," responds Mjrn. She pauses a moment, regarding Gabranth with curiosity, noticing the likeness between twins. He bows to her, respectful. He has no words for her, not unless Fran allows it. Balthier gives only a smirk. Mjrn is satisfied with this much from both men, gesturing for the group to follow her, higher through the village. "If it were only my decision, I would show you to your lodgings straightaway. Jote has said she wishes to speak with you all before deciding. She is just up here."

On the way, Fran places the back of her hand over Gabranth's armored bicep. She expects something. Gabranth holds out his arm, glancing at her in confusion. She situates their arms to her desire, giving the illusion that Gabranth escorts her through the village. The Viera congregating around Jote all take note of this, too polite to gossip in plain sight of them. At the change in energy around her, Jote turns, watching her visitors stop some paces before her. Gabranth sees the resemblance here to Fran: in features, in character. Jote forgets to speak first, too preoccupied in her stern regard of him. Gabranth realizes he is under scrutiny, yet he'll not look away. She fails to intimidate him.

"Sister," says Mjrn, meek; staying at Fran's side, "They have arrived… Have you no words for them? Or will you allow me to decide in your stead?"

Jote ignores her. "And who might this be?" she asks, brow raised at Fran. "I heard no word of an Empire's servant at your side."

"You know well who it is," supplies Fran, unmoved by this game. "Perhaps too well. It is you I sensed all this time, listening. You have invaded my privacy sufficiently to know the answer you seek." Jote shakes her head. Mjrn looks between her sisters, perplexed. Fran mocks that raised brow, sarcasm showing in the mild smirk she learned from years spent in Balthier's company. "Must you do this?"

Jote continues to feign ignorance. Fran does not sigh over the trouble—she turns to Gabranth, soft touch easing his head in her direction. Before he can think to ask for clarification, Fran presses her lips over his silence, firm, firmer, firmest she has ever given him. Gabranth remains submissive to her, resisting the need to pull her closer. Here he stands, mouth open to her, melting as she mends him, making him presentable as _hers_ to their onlookers. Balthier does not fully mask his laughter with unnecessary clears of his throat. When Fran pulls away, resuming her previous posture, Gabranth cannot remember his. He stares ahead, through Fran's elder sister, hardly recognizing the small signs of enjoyment about her.

"So I see," says Jote at last. She places her hand over her smile. When she removes her hand, her amusement follows. "Have you come here to openly display your nature to the Wood? Do you seek refuge here for the boundless opportunities as to his freedom as a caged bird? The armor he wears is but a lie, if not a well-crafted cage."

Gabranth surprises himself, speaking before he hears the words, "My allegiance is no longer with the Empire," he promises. Jote appears convinced, wishing to hear more. "So long as Vayne remains as acting Emperor over Archades and her affairs, the armor I wear is naught but a flawed habit. If you would allow me to prove to you my loyalty to Fran, I will do so in whatever way you see fit."

Jote's curiosity overtakes her stoicism. "You would do this in exchange for residence in the village?"

"Until the Lady Ashe decides on our next course of action, yes."

"You are indeed an intelligent Hume," speaks Jote. She looks to Fran. "And what of you, sister? Will you leave with them once the Princess has decided? It has been fifty years since you departed the village…"

Fran corrects her: "Fifty years, and not a second of true freedom have you allowed me."

"You accusations are unsound," lies Jote, smiling once more.

"Just as you know of the sounds I make in pleasure, certainly."

Jote holds back her laughter. "It has taken me time to accept this," she begins, glancing at Gabranth, "But you made the right choice. That is why I had no qualms in summoning you here. The Wood desires your safety, your happiness above all. Ivalice cannot offer either of these, thus you belong here for the time being." She gestures to the Viera closest to her. "They will escort each of you to your quarters. As for the matter of your loyalty, Judge Gabranth, I do not require any specific acts from you. I only ask that you remain on your best behavior with my dear sister. If you do not, I will know."

* * *

Of the months Gabranth spent reading of the ways of the Viera here, and learning of Fran's ways and why she chose to discard Wood and Village, never did he imagine living among this past. Here he stands now, in Fran's old home: a wooden embrace near the highest point in the village, offering ample space and privacy in the form of curved walls angled above his head. Decorations he recognizes only as Mist encryptions along the walls, spelling out practices and laws in the language Fran has forced herself to forget. In the centermost room, Gabranth finds a spring of water in its purest, warmest form. He is reminded so of his previous home in Landis—the intensity of the reminder overwhelms him. He imagines returning to that home, wearing this cage, with Fran at his side. Perhaps they might find the ghosts of his parents, and Gabranth would introduce Fran to them… But, again, his powerlessness haunts him, for he knows there is no way to make this sudden dream become reality.

Fran walks with him to the water, keeping her silence for now. She removes from him his armor, his silks, and hers, setting them aside one piece at a time. They enter the spring, staying against one another in contemplation. Gabranth keeps his hands to the bends of Fran's hips, smoothing her sensitivity here, enough to calm her. She faces him, sitting along his thighs, lips waiting against the muscle of his shoulder. She teases, offering watery whispers of her nails along his navel. This softness belies her harsher intentions; Gabranth groans over the contradiction, forcing his hands to stay where they are. She has not given him permission to do more than this.

"Speak your thoughts to me," orders Fran, shifting against his growing want.

"I have none—none that are coherent," replies Gabranth, pained for breath. "Only one…that you do not seem yourself here. I wish you would tell me why, though I am certain I can ascertain the reasons for myself. If you believe that I have…we needn't speak on the matter."

Water cascades from Fran's arms as she moves to hold his head. "You are right. We need not discuss it," she speaks, her tone as soft as her touch. "You know me… I enjoy that you do, the ways you do it. If we must remain here, there is no sense in thinking on the outside world." Gabranth lowers his head in her hold, eyes closed over the slenderness of her shoulder. He has no desire to forget the reality of their situation, and yet— "You will do as I say. We will both forget, until the time comes to remember again."

Several weeks they spend in the safety of the village, sheltered from the growing war beyond. For how well they are beyond the boundaries of Ivalice, Gabranth suspects they now live in another dimension. None of the Viera about the village show much concern over the possibility that Ivalice's issues may overtake the peace they maintain here. Larsa and Ashe show promise of forgetting Ivalice entirely, steadily overtaken by the thrall of the Mist, and the ongoing safety they now live in within the Wood. Balthier's preferences remain untouched by other influences, yet he appears content to follow Fran's lead with the situation. Basch has stayed in relative silence since their arrival.

He stays with Ashe and Larsa as they socialize with the Wood's residents, sitting at a round table during the village's communal banquet in the courtyard. Balthier chats with Fran some seats away, expressing his surprise that they have managed to survive this long beyond the familiarity of Ivalice. Gabranth stays knelt at Fran's side, between her and Balthier, per her orders, waiting for his turn to eat; well-aware of those that watch him. His displays are not new to them at all, yet they stare nonetheless, as if this is the first occasion. He wears his submission to her proudly, inhaling the wooden ground close to her heels.

Basch stands, and hesitates before approaching his brother. When Fran raises her brow at him, he clears his throat. "If you will allow me to speak with him," he begins, "I would be most appreciative… I understand the terms of his subservience to you. I am not here to question your authority."

Fran holds Gabranth's shoulder, bidding him to stand. She maintains her conversation with Balthier all the while, unbothered by the interruption. Gabranth is disoriented by this sudden removal from her side. He scowls at Basch, following him away from the courtyard.

"Why have you chosen now to speak with me?" demands Gabranth. "If you could not notice, I was preoccupied."

Basch frowns, sheepish. "I have meant to speak with you for some months now," he states. "Had I waited overlong, or not long enough, you would grow angry with me. There appeared to be no better time to have this conversation…" Gabranth waits for his brother to collect himself. With a sigh, Basch asks: "Brother…do you still hate me for what I've done? For our disagreements? For your stubbornness and mine in choosing our separate paths?"

"I thought it obvious that I do not."

"It is," agrees Basch. "Though with this obviousness comes the uncertainty of your emotions toward me. It is clear that you care for Fran above all else. I am not here to express my envy that you could hold another in such high regard, all while blatantly ignoring me." Whatever Basch's intentions, Gabranth considers the notion nonetheless. However small, a stab of guilt finds him. "Is it because I remind you of the past? Is there something there in that time that you wish to forget?"

Gabranth cannot stop the reminder of that man held prisoner in Nalbina, his final night in Landis; those moments before Drace and Zargabaath found him, disgraced. Here he realizes that Basch was not with him to witness the sight of their mother's murder, and that his hatred stemmed purely from Basch's absence. They should have suffered together. They should have been traumatized for the same reasons.

Yet now, when he looks upon his brother, Gabranth sees no reason to spite him. Fran has liberated him of his past self. Regardless of her orders, Gabranth can never forget his true state. He fears she has attempted to order his ignorance to the truth. The figurative ground he stands upon remains affixed with holes. The past has placed these imperfections here, threatening for him to move. If he moves, he will fall. The ground is broken, as he is. No matter how far he walks, he will never escape his only means to move. He cannot fly, not as Fran has done, and will always do. She will leave him for the skies, for him to stay upon the ground, crawling, searching in vain for her, crying, until he stops, bent over for the past to fuck him as she once did; penetrating him with the truth of that night he will never forget.

"Noah?" says Basch, concerned. "Your eyes tell me that my assumptions are correct—"

"Damn you!" spits Gabranth, backing away. "Each time you speak to me, you remind me of too much! You make me think as a madman would, covered in these fears and lies! This is why I keep my distance from you! You will keep yours from me, or else!"

Gabranth leaves amid the echo of his brother's calls of his name. He returns to the banquet, to his place at Fran's side, upon the ground. He grows hard, finding his satisfaction in staying here for her. He will not fall through this broken land beneath him.

Longer months pass; close to a year they have stayed in the village, learning via radio in their stolen Imperial airship of the worsening state of the war beyond. Dalmasca's territory has largely burned to the ground, trapped in the middle of the chaos with no hope of escape; Rozzaria's resources are dwindling to their last; Archades stands a chance of winning, though Emperor Gramis yet lives, and tries to reason with his son to stop this war. With no throne to return to, Ashe knows she cannot act now, no matter what plan they may come up with. Thus they have decided to stay until they see an opening through this grim reality they now face.

Gabranth stays upon the ground—this time, it is along the cot Fran has brought with them to her home, their home. She sits against the half-trunk of the tree in the bedroom, torso free of coverings, with only her legs guarded by her patterned armor. She reads a book on Viera law, reminding herself of her old tongue; Gabranth's tongue has stayed between her, pleasuring at an unhurried pace during these long hours she has otherwise spent ignoring him. This illusion of Fran neglecting his services to her, Gabranth finds stimulating beyond the mere act itself. As if his mouth is expected to be here, as if his senses are expected to be drenched in her; as if her occasional, soft moans are but daily routine to her, automatic as breathing. He holds her thighs in his bare hands, delighted to have her legs crossed over his unclothed back. The silk trousers he wears do little to conceal his arousal that has persisted this whole time.

He should be embarrassed when Balthier enters the room. This has happened more times than he can count. Gabranth is unfazed, continuing to drink. As a silent, subtle treat, Fran softly grazes her nails along his scalp, still reading.

"Enjoying yourself, are you?" asks Balthier, arms folded, leaning against the nearest wall. Fran turns the page of her book. "You aren't coming down with a case of cabin fever, trapped in this place? I swear each time I go to tidy up the airship, I forget _why_. We're never going to use the damned thing again."

"You long for the freedom of the skies?"

Balthier sighs at the reminder. "I long for quite a bit _more_ than that," he corrects. Fran makes a small sound of sympathy, continuing to read. "How on earth is it that you manage not to care? Need I remind you, we're sky pirates! We've turned into wood wailers, lodged here, waiting the months away while the war wages on in our skies. Don't you miss it? The excitement of a heist, the laughs we had over the blunders in our beginnings, the sounds of our gathered coin after a job?"

Fran sets her book down over Gabranth's shoulder blades. "Your _point_?" she asks, at last giving Balthier her undivided attention—as much as she could, in this position.

"You've grown complacent," notes Balthier, frowning. "You would rather remain here with your sex slave than be out and about making a difference in the world."

"The only difference we made was how deeply we lined our pockets with gold. Do not romanticize our exploits. We will return to them when we are able. There is little gain in thinking on it. I did not think you a masochist."

"And I didn't think _you_ a nymphomaniac, yet here we are."

Fran rolls her eyes. "You exaggerate," she points out. Balthier smiles. "You think otherwise?"

"Each time I visit, I find you in the throes of pleasure with your beloved. In case you forgot, I visit quite often. If that's not evidence enough, I don't know what is."

Fran presses her hand to Gabranth's forehead, making him cease his efforts. "Your accusation is not what you truly mean to say," she senses. Gabranth rests the side of his face against the soaked fabric between her thighs, listening. "What is it, Balthier? You have held your words to yourself for over a year. You may excel in your jests and evasions, but I know better. Tell me the truth."

"You've fallen in love…haven't you? Both of you. And you refuse to admit it. I _know_ you haven't. The words hang over you as a fog. It's awkward when I'm the only one who can see it. Now that you know, that's enough for me."

Neither Fran nor Gabranth can think of anything to say in response. Balthier gives them one last look of concern before taking his leave. The moment he is gone, the air about Fran changes. She drops the inscrutability she maintains even in the company of Balthier, staring off to the side in sadness.

Gabranth sets her book aside. He frees himself from the tangle of her long legs, sitting up, level with her face. This beauty, he takes in his hands, easing Fran to face him. There are more words, more sentiments she has not expressed to him: the true reasons for her reticence around him, and why she prefers action in place of conversation. He has known of her chosen silence for longer than the year they have been with one another. Not once did he think to question her motives. Always did he hold his patience with her, never suspecting her of malicious intentions. He cannot imagine Fran as anything less than the acceptance and kindness she represents for him, far more than anyone in this world.

"Is that true?" she asks of a sudden, startling him. It is only now, before her emotions, that he realizes he has spoken his thoughts aloud. "Or did you not mean to say it?"

"I did not mean to speak the words, no…but they are indeed true, from my heart all the same. There are a number of things you have never allowed with me. I wonder, and sometimes I worry about them, for they all share a similar theme."

Fran's anticipation is marked. "What theme?" she asks, searching Gabranth's eyes for the answer. Never has she allowed this side of herself to have even a hint of light. Not directly.

"You fear being open with another." Gabranth knows he is right when Fran tries to look away. He keeps her gaze to his. "I have only one hint that a desire to be vulnerable exists within you… From how adamant you have been to keep the scene from repeating itself, I know I am right." Fran does not try to escape him this time. Gabranth holds her face closer to his, firm. "When we met again in Nalbina. The Captain's quarters. I had you bound, to be used at my whim. You were wet even before I set foot in the room. Your helplessness excited you, mere novelty or not."

"Noah," says Fran, finding her authority again, "You will stop this."

Gabranth cannot help the words, "And you love me because I offer the promise of your safety in that vulnerability." Shallow breaths Fran lets out over his words, shuddering to maintain her control. Such liberation Gabranth feels from giving shape to these truths; he is drugged by her apparent weakness; he will not stop. "You know I'll not flee at the sight. I will have no cause to taunt you over it, as you feared others would do." He edges his hips between her, certain that she feels his reaction to her resistance. "I love you because you have given that promise to me. You have kept it. I understand it."

"I said _stop_ …"

Her strength in sadism, Gabranth has learned fully. He applies that pressure over her mouth with his hand, silencing her. "I heard you," he whispers. Fran meets his regard, coldly, yet she still shifts. He senses danger in that coldness. He moves his hand; he backs away, as quickly as he collected this conviction. "Fran? Why do you refuse me…?"

"Because I know what you have kept from me," warns Fran. "You do not deserve my vulnerability when you have never given me yours. Not fully. This is something you have purposefully kept from me. If you'll not hand it over, I shall take it from you." Gabranth knows not how to react when she begins to clothe herself. He hasn't the slightest idea if she truly knows, or if this is merely a farce. He does not want to think on it. "Put on your armor. We will go outside, to the jungle. When you have finished, wait for me here. I need to collect a few things before we leave."

Now he cannot help it. Gabranth must think on the matter. He follows her instructions, listening as she leaves to another room. He does not risk dressing slowly, does not risk prolonging this uncertain future. He knows he will anger her further if he tries to save himself. Gabranth remembers their second sexual encounter, months ago, during their flight to Rabanastre—there, in the room with her, her words frightened him to this prospect.

_She knows._

Further evidence: Fran refuses to allow Gabranth to see what items she has collected. She has him walk in front of her, leading the way through the village's night to the Golmore Jungle beyond. With her words, she directs him along to the path to their airship. She has him stop in an area with thin, fresh mud after the recent rain. She removes his helmet, forcing him to kneel down face-first in this sodden earth.

_She knows everything._

Despite his armor, Gabranth is exposed. He shakes at the knees. Fran's harsh touch finds him again, removing his protection, his cage, and his lies from him. She leaves only his silks. These silks feel as the ones he wore as a boy in Landis, provided to him by his mother, her security, her comfort, her pride. Fran affixes a noose around Gabranth's neck, tempting his throat to sting and scream. Fran cuffs his wrists behind his back, suffocating his limbs. When Fran sets the trees around them aflame with her black magicks, Gabranth can no longer stop his tears from soaking this mud all the more.

He smells Landis as much as he smells Fran's sadism. The latter hardens him through his silks—again, and again, upright, curving, higher when he feels the dig of her nails in his skin, when she tears his clothes from him. In this exposure, he sees his mother there before him, kneeling in the same way; how she refuses to look at him. He is no longer a man. He is her son. He is aroused by the manner of her death in all its novelty. He is Fran's slave, here to take whatever humiliation she deems necessary. He dreams of the Imperial soldier that held his noose that night, wishing he were Fran instead, for her to fuck him as a boy, as she does now; for her to hear his cries, for her to be this thick at the root over his sickness, knowing what he thinks of. He listens to the femininity through her forceful fucking, finding solace here in the present. That solace, she rips from him when she speaks in bursts against his ear:

"You are disgusting, Noah. You have no humanity. You are aroused by the sickest of sights. You are nothing if not a slave to your sex." His erection, Fran grips in her hand. She digs her nails at his base, the pain reminding him of his previous teasing. "I will cut this from you if you prefer. That is what you deserve."

Harder she digs, threatening to make him bleed. Harder he cries, with no power to threaten anything. Heat from the flames encroaches—he remembers others were there that night, possibly witnessing his shame. He imagines the only people he can to fill that absence: Ashe, Basch, Balthier, Vayne, Drace, Zargabaath, even Larsa, in this wickedness; here he sees his fierce desire to protect Larsa, going against an Empire to ensure his safety, to keep the young lord safe from this hell; they all watch him devolve as a mess of a boy; Fran takes him, uses him as the object he must be, for no being could ever be this worthless. This emptiness, this malleability he possesses in his nothingness marks him as Fran's all the more. He must be hers, completely, if he can hope to live as anything, as anyone, for only she will accept him. Her acceptance fuels his pulse, widening his walls for her until they bleed hardest, breaking through her thrusts. She pushes him past the edge of his character and past reasons for being, into her. He spills along Fran's hand, shouting of his love for her amid the growing heat of the blaze around them.

Twenty years of weights are freed from him. Noah continues to cry over their absence, for they were all that had sustained him before. Fran understands. She holds him through that loss, replacing the space with her, with her perceptiveness, her care, with all that she is. When she kisses him, she promises to make up for her sudden cruelty; she apologizes. He cries himself desiccated before he realizes that he is clothed again in his armor, and she has taken him someplace else.

Fran guides him to sit in the co-pilot's seat of their Imperial airship. Noah keeps his helm in his lap, unwilling to hide his face any longer. Balthier stops his routine maintenance on the other side of the ship, staring at the pair.

"What's this?" he asks, wiping his hands clean of oil. "Going somewhere, are you?"

"Where we should have gone in the first place," speaks Fran, starting up the ship. "You may join us if you wish. Jote will tell the others where we have gone."

Balthier makes his way to a passenger's seat. "And where might that be?"

"We are going home," is all Fran says.

Noah feels Balthier's eyes on the back of his lowered head. "When I said I longed for the skies," begins Balthier, "This isn't quite what I had in mind… Then again, I'm in no place to be choosey. Fly her as you wish, Fran. I'll do my best to stay quiet. You two look as though you're in need of some space."

* * *

They spend the remaining weeks of their shelter from the war in Landis. A number of refugees from the other continents have sought refuge in this land of wood and earth, rebuilding the community, the cities, the government and the economy. During these months, Balthier manages to find a few jobs to complete on his own, bringing in much-needed gil to help Noah with this project. Noah also rebuilds—he has chosen his old home to birth anew, stripping the wood of its old skin, tearing away those past memories. He works in his armor, without his cape: that fabric, he has torn in two, and it now hangs as a frame over the front door. He keeps this steel as a symbol of all he has overcome in his cage.

On the day Noah finishes his reconstruction, they hear news that the war has ended in a stalemate. Vayne and Cid have been found dead in Archades, killed by unknown means. Noah knows well enough that Zargabaath and Drace managed to find a way to do what he could not. Dalmasca will rebuild, with Ashe as their Queen, as will Archades, with Larsa as Emperor, as they have so toiled for. Basch stays at Ashe's side, living on through Gabranth's name, though not as Judge Magister. Larsa remains protected by Drace and Zargabaath, the three of them ever loyal to the better motivations of the Empire. Rozzaria supports Dalmasca and Archades both in this new direction.

And here is Fran on this summer afternoon, finding him at the entrance of his project. She smiles as she greets him, expectant. Noah has kept one last secret from her. He can no longer delay it.

"You are nervous," she points out, gentle. Noah frowns. "What troubles you? After all that has happened, you needn't fear driving me away. Tell me."

Noah holds her hands in his, finding the words. "I have rebuilt my old home," he begins, "As an offering to you and Balthier, that you might use this as your hideout. I know—I understand your need to be free, to spread your wings in search of treasure and adventure. I shall stay here and make certain you find comfort in Landis, in me, upon your return. During our stay in the village, many nights did I dream of shouting to the gods, for them to stop this war and give the skies back to you… Not once did I think that the solution was to give you my truths instead. You have freed me, Fran. Allow me to prove this to you, that you might find it in you to marry me one day. I promise you, the war inside of me is over."

Fran smiles wider. She holds him close. "And what of your honor?" she asks, staring at the torn cape behind him. "You have wandered over a year as a man lost without it. Have you found it?"

"Before, I forced it to stay… I believed it to be with the Empire, forever as a fixed star. All that I have suffered has shown me the path to that star. It has never moved—I had to find the correct one. I have found it in my love for you, in accepting your presence here, in all that I am. I can never thank you enough, my love."

It is as if the tides changed with his outlook in life; as if Ivalice would have remained at war for as long as he stayed at war with himself and his past. When Fran unlocked him, so, too, was Ivalice freed from the greed of her rulers. Noah wishes he could apologize directly to the people of the world, for plunging them into a needless war mirrored by his own struggles. He pictures his remuneration to the world as his happiness—something he could never give before, yet now flows so freely for Fran.

_End._


End file.
